


(I'd promise you anything for) Another Shot at Life

by ICryYouMercy (TrafalgarsLaw)



Category: due South
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Erectile Dysfunction, F/M, Internalised ableism, M/M, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-02
Updated: 2015-04-02
Packaged: 2018-03-20 22:34:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3667725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrafalgarsLaw/pseuds/ICryYouMercy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just because it doesn't work doesn't mean it's broken.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(I'd promise you anything for) Another Shot at Life

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Quincey for betaing this and for all the marvellous advice and information given. (And one day, I might even stop blushing.)
> 
> Title is taken from Fall Out Boy's 'Disloyal Order of Water Buffaloes'.
> 
> Some parts of this fic aren't exactly sunshine and roses, though they don't fall under any of the archive warnings, so consult the end notes for more information if you're uncertain.

Of course Ben knows about sex. His grandparents have never been the sort of people to value innocence over knowledge, and learning and knowing about animal behaviour is something of a necessity when it comes to surviving in the territories. To be fair, however, most of what he knows, of course, relates to concepts and rather simplified mechanics and biology, and he isn't entirely certain what, precisely, sex would look or feel like, as that had never been the relevant point of the information given.

It is something that happens between adults of all mammal species, and a rather significant number of vertebrates, and it can result in procreation of some form, though there are species that will engage in sexual behaviour (whatever this means) for recreation or social bonding, and most species that reproduce sexually will engage in courtship behaviours with the intent to display or demonstrate their suitability for reproduction. He isn't sure he understands all of this when he first reads about it, but it serves him well enough long into puberty. The changes his body undergoes, he can categorise as simple biology, and he does likewise with the strange behaviour his peers start exhibiting.

It isn't something he feels particularly curious about, for reasons he can't quite explain even to himself yet, though by the time he finds himself asked out on a date, by a school friend, a girl called Sam, barely older than him, but far more invested in what Ben considers to be part of learning how to be an adult, the first puzzle piece falls into place. Courtship feels strange, foreign almost, like lying or play acting in a sense. He doesn't understand why he should feign interest in something he isn't particularly curious about, and he doesn't understand why he should desire something that would require such an effort, if the only reward was that he should get to expend yet more effort to maintain it.

The date, predictably enough, doesn't end well, and Ben is glad to be back home, back where it is quiet and calm, and the air is free of loud and badly controlled emotions. He does dedicate some time to analysing his reactions, tries to clear his mind of this distinctly unpleasant experience, in a bid to calm down, to overcome the nervous energy running through him and keeping him awake far past his usual bedtime.

He knows this part of it, at least, knows that other people's emotions can be invasive and contagious when he isn't careful, and if he wishes to learn anything, the first thing he needs to do is to sort which emotions are his, and which are the ones he has picked up from Sam. Rough triage is simple enough, the nervous excitement and energy is all Sam's, as is a strange kind of hope or maybe anticipation, and vague disappointment that drifts into worry, though Ben doesn't know what about. Then there is another kind of nervousness, something anxious, almost afraid that could be Sam's, but could just as well come from Ben. He sets it aside, to consider later on, and turns to something that feels like need, but feels nothing like what biology textbooks told him it would feel like, no anticipation, no wish to do anything about anything, just a desperate desire to not be there, not be doing this, not to have to deal with any of it. Ben wonders about it for a moment, and then decides that maybe, his body and mind were simply confused by the new information, not much helped by the strength of Sam's emotions, and it would get better with time, experience, and practice.

And then, underneath it all, at the very core, buried deeply and shamefully, is disgust, or maybe revulsion, and something not entirely unlike fear. Fraser remembers the sound of Sam's voice, uneven from nervousness, and forcefully soft and high, for reasons he doesn't entirely understand, and then the cinema, a film, far too loud, too many colours and lights and music and speech and sound effects, and the breathing of a room full of people, the rustling of clothes and whispered conversations, and the occasional creaking sound when someone shifted in their seat. He might have been able to process it, it had been dark in the room, the screen and the emergency lights just barely letting him see the audience, but that didn't help much when on the screen, there was a constant move and shift of colours and lights, flickering incessantly, and he couldn't tell the characters apart, too many faces, to quickly, and they never said their names either way, he is sure they didn't, no formal introduction, it was just assumed he would know, or maybe that he could pick it up, and without the names to anchor them, the faces just turned into coloured lights, and he was lost. And then there was the smell, popcorn and sweat, and something like lemons, something clean and sharp and cloying, making him nauseous; and the perfume Sam had been wearing, he remembers thinking that perfume, like everything else, would probably require some practice to know how much was needed; but maybe that's just him, maybe it's just his broken brain, the fact that the scent was anything but alluring, made him want to run instead, or maybe bury his nose in the collar of his shirt, just so that the horrible, heavy perfume would be filtered through the familiar taste-smell-feel of laundry detergent; but he couldn't, it would have been rude. And anyways, filtering doesn't help much when he is this overwhelmed already, it would only have made it worse, and then the chemical smell of movies, of burning dust and projectors running too warm, familiar from far too many outdated electronic devices, but unpleasant in the extreme, alarming even, fire as much a danger as the ice, and it was harmless, always harmless, but it still smelt of fire, and then Sam had taken his hand, something apparently happened on the screen, he hadn't noticed, but the feeling of her hand around his, keeping him from moving, and just one more moment of sensory input he had to process, and it was too much, everything was too much, and he couldn't think, couldn't breathe, couldn't move, couldn't…

 

He tries to breathe, chokes on it, panic and too much too fast still running through his mind, and he pulls his blanket closer, opens his eyes to stare at the ceiling, focuses on the sound of his breathing and heartbeat and the way the linen rustles every time he moves, and it's not enough, he still feels dizzy, crosses his arms behind his back, forcing his hands quiet and still with his own body weight, he knows that moving now would be the worst thing he could do, no matter how much he wants to. So he lies there, and stares at the ceiling, and tries to breathe calmly and deeply, the scent of laundry detergent and soap and home finally serving to quiet his frantic mind.

Maybe, with practice, he would get better at this. Get better at going to the cinema and better at dating. Maybe, if he could focus, and think through it, and find what sensations are too much and which ones are bearable, and maybe find one or two pleasant ones, maybe then it could even be enjoyable. But he's barely fourteen, and he spends most of his free time out in the wild, exploring and learning and listening, soaking up the calm and quiet and the smell of wind and sun and rain, simple and clean and harsh in exactly the right ways, and it doesn't seem worth losing any second of it just for the slight chance of finding pleasure in closed rooms and artificial darkness and the constant flood of too many emotions.

So Ben decides that he won't try dating again, or at least not until he is older, until maybe whatever is broken in his brain will get better, or until the biological imperative his books mentioned grows strong enough to override his instinctive dislike.

***

It does get easier, in a sense. Ben's brain stubbornly stays broken, remembers the exact sound of a song he heard ten years ago, and the smell of gunpowder and oil, and the exact measurements of his grandparents' house, and the way summer storms feel against his skin, and the coldness and weight of a properly sharpened knife. But now, he also remembers names and faces, can put them together even if no one tells him, and he learns to ignore some sounds and smells, if they are common enough, car engines and laundry detergent, conversations that he isn't part of and food he isn't eating.

It doesn't help much, at the depot. He's here to learn, to make his father proud, and though he would never admit this out loud, so that he can one day find work that will allow him to spend his days alone and outside, where the world is quiet and familiar, and where no one wears perfume or breathes loudly or bleeds emotions like they've been cut open. He tries to make friends, learns to pretend to be normal, learns that people will be suspicious and annoyed when he quotes textbooks or manuals or instructions at them, will be scared when he can throw knives and get perfect scores on any gun he's taught to handle, without any apparent effort, will be jealous when he takes to riding and to dog sledding without the least trouble, somehow never has to deal with disobedient or aggressive animals.

He doesn't understand it, and he doesn't much care, he knows he won't be much good in a city, won't be any use when it comes to working with people, and he doesn't think it's fair, the way his classmates begrudge him what skills he has, when he still doesn't know how to talk to people, how to relate to them, when so many things around him hurt, bright lights and certain smells and loud sounds, when he can't be normal, not even when he tries.

He focuses on learning as much as he can, as well as he can, willing and wanting to learn anything anyone could possibly be willing to teach, no matter how difficult or obscure or arcane it might be. He doesn't talk much, outside of his classes and to other people, and sometimes, it's lonely and terrifying and he doesn't think he can do it any longer, but it never lasts, not when this is what he wants, not when he knows that if he just gets through this, he can go back home, where it's quiet and cold and still again.

He can't remember the last time he talked to anyone outside of class, and he almost isn't sorry about it, remembers far too clearly the fear and resentment and stress in something as simple as asking about the weather, because people seem to want to talk even about this, about how the weather makes them feel, they get angry about the rain, and resentful about storms, and there seems to be a limit to how many consecutive days of any weather people can stand. Ben can't recall having any sort of emotions about weather. He needs to know about it so he can dress appropriately, and so he knows whether he needs to prepare for electricity outages or flooding or freezing, and he can imagine worry about particularly dangerous conditions, but even that is more academic than emotional.

He has found a place in the library, on the upper floor, a table that no one ever seems to use, and he has books spread out around him, psychology textbooks mainly, one or two texts about illegal drugs, and a notebook he keeps filling with more and more convoluted remarks and commentary, trying to find a way to fix his brain, to make it run like everyone else's, not because he wants to be having feelings about the weather, and not because of the memory of Sam's hand in his, but because his classmates have slowly moved from cautious and suspicious to outright hostile, and Ben can't make them understand, but maybe if he could be like them, they would leave him alone again.

Something is dropped on the table, on the bit at the opposite corner where there aren't any books, yet, and Ben looks up.

"Mind if I sit here? There's no other free spaces," the stranger asks, and there is something strange about the way he speaks, something just a bit off about the vowels, and his consonants are too soft around the edges. Ben frowns, trying to concentrate, replaying the words in his head, needs to figure this out, almost forgets that he would be expected to provide an answer. The stranger misunderstands, of course, and Ben can't blame him for it. "Pardon," the stranger says, and his voice stumbles just the slightest bit higher and quicker, Ben notices, and then he has his explanation for the accent. "Je peux m'asseoir?"

Ben nods, waves his hands in a way that he hopes conveys 'certainly, feel free to do so' adequately enough, and turns back to his books.

For a while, it's quiet, the stranger apparently unpacking a number of books, and then there is the rustling of papers, the click of a ballpoint pen, and then the stranger says, "Je suis Sébastien, moi."

Ben looks up from his books again, more of a reflex than anything else, and says, "Enchanté. Je suis Ben," and he stumbles over his own name, the clearly English sound of it clashing with the French beforehand.

Sébastien laughs at that. "Ah, mince," he says. "T'es pas français, toi."

"Désolé," Ben says, and then, because he feels like maybe, he should explain, he adds, "I was just wondering about your accent, and forgot to answer."

"Happens," Sébastien says.

They sit in silence for the rest of the afternoon.

It turns into something of a habit afterwards, and Ben gets used to Sébastien's presence, gets used to the way he smells of woodsmoke and ink, the way he taps his fingers against things when he's thinking, the way his voice catches just the slightest bit on Ben's name. They don't talk much, their conversations usually limited to saying hello and goodbye.

Until one day, Sébastien asks him what he's reading about, and Ben is so startled that it takes him several minutes to understand and answer the question. In most other people, this would have prompted some kind of reaction, a repeat of the question, or maybe asking if they were heard. Sébastien just waits.

"Excuse me?", Ben finally manages, when he realises that he has managed to forget the initial question over his observation.

"Qu'est-ce que tu lis?", Sébastien asks, laughter in his voice.

"Psychology textbook," Ben says, knowing better than to start talking. He might know how or when to stop, after all. He is perfectly aware of it, but it doesn't help much, not when he gets passionate and the words just come pouring out of his mouth, trying to make someone understand, repetition the only way he can adequately express his joy, when a single word just won't do to contain it.

"You study?", Sébastien asks.

"No, no, it's just fascinating, it's about sensory perception, how people react to too much of it, when colours are too bright, or too much noise, how blue walls are calming and red ones make people aggressive, and psychosomatic migraines, because if you have the wrong colours moving the wrong ways, you can trigger some people into," and Ben bites his tongue, actually bites his tongue, has to physically stop himself from uttering a single word more, because surely Sébastien doesn't want or need to know about any of this.

"Too much sensory perception?"

Ben keeps biting his tongue, doesn't know how to explain this, how to say that he would love to say more, but he would bore Sébastien, and he doesn't want that, doesn't want to alienate the one person who is still under the illusion that Ben is normal and maybe worth spending time with.

"Trop de perception sensorielle?"

Ben laughs, can't help but laugh. "Yes," he says, and then, "Oui, je pense. C'est, quand tu as deux ou trois personnes qui parlent au même temps, et tu ne comprends pas qu'est-ce qu'ils disent, parce que c'est… c'est trop, et tu ne peux pas… te concentrer? Sur les choses qu'un de ces personnes dit, et tu… tu arrêtes? De écouter, tu les entends, mais tu n'écoutes plus. Comme ça, mais ça se passe aussi avec des choses tu vois ou tu… tu goutes?  Ou tu touches? Touché? Et quelque fois, c'est encore plus mauvais, car on… on entends de couleurs, ou on goute les sons, et c'est simplement trop."

The French helps, in a sense, because he has to stop and think about his words, has to find the right ones, has to think about conjugating verbs and pronouncing them properly, and it slows him down, makes him stop as soon as he said what he needed to say, because more words are an effort instead of something coming naturally.

"Huh," Sébastien says. "You hear colours?"

Ben nods, opens his mouth to answer, and then realises that no, no, he can't, he'll say too much, and…

"Hey, what's wrong?" Sébastien asks, voice pitched low and soothing, the soft quality of his vowels even more apparent like this. "Was it something I said?"

"It's nothing, no, I just… I talk too much, when you ask about things I care about, and I can't shut up, I can't, because no one ever asks, but you just did, and I want to tell you about it, and I like you, but people get bored, they always do, I don't know how to stop talking, and I don't want to annoy you, that wouldn't be fair, and I'm sorry, I'll stop, I promise, I will."

Sébastien laughs at that, and it's almost a relief, to know that Ben had been right, and he might lose another person he had come to cautiously like, but at least things will be simpler again, now. "I wouldn't have asked if I didn't want to know," he says, then.

Ben stares at him, actually stares, no one has ever said that, no one has ever heard him ramble on about something and then asked for more, and he wants to tell Sébastien about that, but there are no right words for it, or Ben just doesn't know them, so instead he starts explaining about synaesthesia, and how Wednesdays taste the way the taste of strawberries feels, and how remembering instruction manuals is so terrifyingly easy because they are all grey on grey on grey, they're all the same, and if he knows one list of codes of conduct or rules or guidelines, he knows them all, if he can just find the underlying pattern.

And Sébastien listens, and asks questions, and it's well into the evening before they finally part ways, Ben feeling like he could just float away, feeling so incredibly light now that he has told all those words to someone else, gotten them out of his head at long last.

It turns into a somewhat regular occurrence, and Ben tells Sébastien about tracking various animals, and about criminal law, and about the history and traditions of the RCMP. Sébastien never says much, even when Ben remembers to ask about him. He studies law, he was raised bilingual, he likes pancakes, and he loves action movies. None of this explains his willingness to sit in a dusty corner in the library, listening to Ben talk about almost any subject under the sun, but Ben fears that asking him would result in him leaving, and that is simply not something he is willing to contemplate.

The library smells of spring and sunshine when Ben comes in, tired and angry and frustrated, after another class full of having to explain himself, explain how he knows, and he can't, not when everything is colour and taste and sound, and this is just how it works, feels like having to explain the colour red to a blind man.

Sébastien is already waiting for him, his smile changing into a concerned frown at something he must see in Ben's expression, or possibly his posture. "We could go see a movie," he says, not bothering with a greeting. "You look like you need a break."

Ben doesn't know how to explain, how to tell his friend that movies are terrifying and too much too fast too loud, without ultimately convincing that he isn't worth the effort, so he nods, and he says, "Perhaps it might be worth trying, at least."

The cinema is almost empty, on a Friday afternoon, and the only film on is some sort of action movie with far too many explosions, and Ben can't follow the plot, can't even tell the characters apart, but it's nice, in a sense, he can just let the noise and light wash over him, lean back in his seat, eat popcorn and watch Sébastien alternatively cheer on and curse the characters. The smell of burning dust and cleaning products are the only thing disturbing his peace of mind, but after about half an hour, he figures out that if he leans just a bit closer to Sébastien, he can instead focus on the way his friend smells, familiar and soothing.

He doesn't consider the message he might be sending, or that maybe Sébastien might want something other than friendship from him, doesn't even realise that this might be a possibility, until Sébastien slings an arm around his shoulder, pulls him closer yet, and says, "Please tell me I'm not misunderstanding this."

'Misunderstanding what?' Ben wants to ask, before he thinks better of it, before he realises that maybe, going to the cinema with Sébastien isn't much different from going to the cinema with Sam. His first thought is that no, that can't be it, even if Sébastien were inclined that way, because Ben is not, Ben isn't inclined any way, or at least not in a manner that would mean much for most people. His second thought, however, points out that Sébastien smells of ink and smoke, and his voice is smooth and cool, and Ben actively enjoys talking to him, and maybe touching him would be interesting, might even be nice. So Ben leans closer, and says, "You're not misunderstanding this."

This close, the only thing he can feel or see or hear or smell is Sébastien, and the movie disappears somewhere in the background, not important enough to merit attention, and either way, the sheer physical presence of Sébastien, the fact that Ben is suddenly allowed to touch, the nervous curiosity about how this might work, all of this takes precedence over exploding cars and people Ben can't tell apart.

He ends up twisted uncomfortably in his seat, his face pressed against Sébastien's shoulder, listening to his heartbeat and slow, even breaths, and after a while Sébastien raises a hand, starts running it through Ben's hair almost absentmindedly, and it's good, it's marvellous, Ben almost wishes he could stay here, could stay in this moment forever.

But when he turns his head, trying to get closer to skin, trying to find what Sébastien smells like, without the inevitable traces of laundry detergent covering him, what Ben finds instead is a new smell, almost taste-like with heaviness, something he can't quite classify, a bit like sweat and excitement and nervousness, rough and pure, and Ben thinks _oh_ , and maybe this was what went wrong with Sam, maybe between her perfume and the popcorn she ate, there wasn't anything that Ben could identify as human and real and honest in the artificial and terrifying process of going on a date.

He feels himself responding to it, and hopes that this really is the emotion Sébastien is bleeding, because he wants to, wants to know how this works, what it might feel like, what it will taste and sound and smell and look like, wants to know if maybe, with someone else to focus on, the sensations might be less overwhelming, less terrifying and all-consuming, easier to manage and direct, perhaps.

Licking Sèbastien's neck isn't something he thinks about, he just does it, wants to know if this smell extends to other senses, if maybe he could just fully immerse himself in it, no other sensation but this, this closeness and roughness that's so bright-sharp-good it almost hurts.

"Ben!", Sébastien says, and then, "Arrête! Attende!"

Ben backs away hastily, starting to apologise.

"Pas ici," Sébastien tells him before he can even form the first word, and oh. _Oh_.

They somehow make it to Sébastien's place, and Ben wonders for a moment if maybe they should have gone on a proper date first, should have eaten dinner together, should have told each other strange untruths about their life goals and their career prospects, like people seem to do in movies, but then Sébastien is kissing him, _kissing him_ , and Ben's lips are cracked and over-sensitised from the salty popcorn, and he chases the taste, tastes salt and the slightest undertone of blood between their mouths, presses closer, doesn't quite know why, but Sébastien feels solid and reassuring against him, and Ben doesn't have the presence of mind to for any sort of plan or idea, everything overloaded with smell and taste and touch, the way Sébastien has him pressed against the nearest wall in seconds, is licking into his mouth, tongue slick and soft and strange, Ben shivers at the sensation, at the taste of it, hears Sébastien's breath hitch, feels his own heartbeat speed up, feels dizziness rise.

Sébastien steps back, and Ben needs a moment to understand, to realise what is happening, doesn't know what he did wrong, this was nice, this was good, he had wanted more, why are they stopping? "Everything alright?" Sébastien asks.

Ben nods, almost violently, reaches out for him, he needs more, please.

"You went sort of quiet there, sort of passive," Sébastien goes on.

"Oh," Ben says. "I didn't… didn't notice, I don't usually, I've never, not like this, it's so much, I don't know how to, what to…"

"It's fine, don't be nervous, we can take this slow."

And maybe that is supposed to be reassuring, maybe that should calm him down, but it doesn't work, not when the only thing Ben can feel is frustrated desire. "No, no, this is good, this is, I need, please," he manages, and maybe there was a sentence in there, somewhere, but the only thing that makes it out of his mouth is despair, instead.

Sébastien laughs, and then steps closer again, warm and solid against Ben's own body, and yes, this is what he wanted, what he needed, and Ben reaches out to touch, runs his hands up under Sébastien's shirt, leans in to kiss and bite and lick the lines of his throat, tries to taste as much of him as he can.

Sébastien sighs, and then moans, and then he just keeps making those noises, tiny and quiet, and Ben can't get enough of them, tries to push Sébastien's shirt aside, to get more skin, to find more ways to elicit those noises, maybe find different, louder, brighter ones as well.

Which is when Ben remembers that he has hands, he has hands that are touching Sébastien, running over smooth skin, curious and searching, and he needs to stop and focus on his hands, not on his mouth, just for a second, just for long enough to get Sébastien's shirt off, and then he can forget about them again, no point in using his hands for exploration when his lips and tongue will tell him the exact same thing, and so much more besides.

"Can I, please, tell me I can?" he whispers, pulling at the hem of Sébastien's shirt, his lips brushing against skin with every syllable.

"God, please," Sébastien breathes.

So Ben gets him out of his shirt, and then just looks for a moment, so much skin on display, and the trail of hair that runs downward from Sébastien's belly button, and oh, when excitement tastes overwhelming and desperate on his neck, what must he taste like further down, where…

Sharp pain shoots through his knees, and it's only then that Ben realises that he dropped onto them, desire easily bypassing his usual thought processes, but none of that matters, not when he is this close, not when he needs so badly.

His hands are trembling when he raises them to undo Sébastien's belt and trousers, and he doesn't ask permission, can't make his mouth form the words properly, but above him, Sébastien is whispering a steady stream of breathless encouragement, and Ben is perfectly willing to just run with that.

He almost growls when he realises that Sébastien is wearing underwear, another barrier of laundry detergent and cotton between Ben and the taste-smell he is chasing, and he can't bring himself to be careful or patient, leans in to breathe while his fingers pull uselessly at Sébastien's briefs.

"Hey, slow down," Sébastien tells him, and there is a hand on Ben's shoulder, heavy and grounding, and still it takes far too much effort to move away. His disappointment, or maybe his impatience, or else his need, must show, however, because Sébastien only steps out of his trousers and briefs, says, "Come on, I need to be at least sitting down for this, please."

Ben nods, doesn't trust himself to say anything even vaguely coherent, and follows Sébastien further inside, away from the front door they had been practically leaning against, and he would feel embarrassed if it weren't for the way Sébastien's arousal and Ben's own desire drown out any attempts at rhyme or reason.

Sébastien leads Ben to his bedroom, sits on his bed, and motions for Ben to come closer. Ben does, almost automatically, and Sébastien reaches for him, maybe wants to pull him closer, but Ben can't, can't stand being touched in return, not now, when his mind is overloaded with smell and taste and the way Sébastien can't keep his breathing steady.

Ben goes to his knees again, the carpeted floor surprisingly soft in comparison to the tiles in the hallway, and he runs his fingers over it, scratchy, strange, is suddenly glad that he is still fully clothed, and oh, maybe Sébastien wanted him naked, too, so Ben moves back a bit, pulls of his shirt, the air cold against his skin, and it isn't usually like that, he doesn't get cold, and he should investigate this, should learn what makes this different, because surely it can't be a problem of room temperature, not when he grew up with a bedroom that wasn't usually heated, not when it could be avoided, but it shouldn't be that doing what he is doing makes him feel cold, isn't it supposed to be hot, or at least warm, warmer maybe, and…

"Don't stop now," Sébastien whispers above him, and oh, yes, that was what Ben had been doing before he got distracted by the carpet, and he leans in, breathes deeply, smells sweat and nothing else, shivers at it, wants more, because it smell different, so incredibly different from what Ben is used to, smells nothing at all like the acrid stench of too few showers in too long a time, and nothing at all like the clean-tired smell of sports classes or running miles. Instead, it's heavy and harsh and real, something not unlike summer storms in autumn, and Ben keeps breathing and wonders if maybe, maybe, he could, maybe he should, and he carefully licks his lips, and bends his head, and tastes.

He moans at the same time Sébastien does. The skin is soft and smooth against his lips and tongue, slightly salty with sweat, a faint undertone of soap, and the curious sensation of heaviness that seems neither smell nor taste, yet both at once. Ben keeps exploring, runs his tongue along the crease of Sébastien's thighs, and then lower, lower, around his testicles, and oh, this is fascinating, wiry hair under his lips, and the way Sébastien starts to tremble at the touch, whispers, "Ben," and "please," and "oh god," over and over again.

With no further instructions or requests, Ben stays precisely where he is, running his tongue further down, smooth skin behind Sébastien's testicles, tasting of sweat just as much, but rougher, muskier in a way, and when Ben presses closer, tries to figure out that taste, tries to surround himself with it, with how overwhelmingly real it is, Sébastien whimpers, honest to god whimpers, and his hands are in Ben's hair, pulling him away, and then closer, and Ben let's himself be moved, opens his mouth again when Sébastien traces his fingertips and then the head of his penis over Ben's lips, and oh, _oh_ , this is much better, salt-bitter-sweet taste all over his tongue, filling his mouth, filling his mind, nothing else he can think about, needs to get closer, needs more of it, and Sébastien's hand is still gripping his hair, pulling, as though he wasn't entirely certain whether he wants Ben to come closer or to back off, and Ben relaxes into it, lets Sébastien move him, content to simply focus on his taste and the sounds he keeps making.

Suddenly Sébastien is pushing at him, saying something, frantic and quick and stumbling over his words, and Ben doesn't understand, doesn't even realise at first, too caught up in the sheer sensation of what he is doing, of the way his lips and jaw are starting to hurt, just the tiniest bit, and then Sébastien makes this choked-off sound, like it hurts, but before Ben has any chance to worry, there is ejaculate spilling over his tongue, thick and heavy and salty, and he moans at the taste, moans louder when he can feel Sébastien tense for just the shortest of moments and then relax so entirely that he slumps back down on the bed, not even enough energy left to push Ben away, and so Ben stays, waits until Sébastien is done twitching and trembling and moaning, and even then he pulls away just enough that his mouth is empty once more, so that he can try and catch his breath, feeling strangely satisfied, the feeling as much his at it is Sébastien's.

"Let me return the favour," Sébastien eventually says.

Ben doesn't know how to react. He thinks he understands the request, or maybe command, intellectually at least, but there is no favour to repay, Ben is the one who owes Sébastien, not the other way around, and even if that weren't the case, Ben doesn't think he can provide what Sébastien is asking. He might be wrong, he often is when it comes to his body's reactions, and so he reaches down, just to check, and can't help but smile slightly at the expected softness he finds.

It doesn't bother him, not much at least. He's sensitive enough as it is, sometimes can't quite think straight between the sound of passing cars and the rasp of clothes against his skin and the ever-present smell of people and cleaning products, and it almost hurts, sometimes, even when he tries to think about other things, tries to distract himself. And if he becomes erect, it only gets worse, another part of his body to be too sensitive, to chafe against his clothes, to send confused flickers of pain-pleasure-pain to his mind. He has wondered, at times, what it might feel like, touching himself, finding satisfaction the way his classmates so often allude to, he has even tried it himself, several times over, and every time it turned out to be too much, or not enough, forever caught between pain and finding himself distracted by the colour of his bedsheets or something similarly trivial.

He remembers deciding that maybe he didn't need this the way others did, or that maybe his broken brain was just denying him one more pleasure that normal people would experience, but here, now, still kneeling between Sébastien's thighs, his mind filled with nothing but sensation, with nothing but the taste-smell-sound of what he just did, he thinks he might have been wrong.

It might not be what his classmates spoke of, but Sébastien's satisfaction is tangible and almost contagious in the air, and Ben is curiously tired and relaxed, feels like everything is just a bit softer, a bit more quiet, and he could stay like that, could enjoy it for a long time yet, or at least until Sébastien's hand in his hair pulls him back to the present.

"Laisse-moi te renvoyer l'asceseur," Sébastien says once he's caught Ben's attention, and it's all wrong, this wasn't supposed to happen.

"No, no, it's okay, I'm okay, it's…" Ben stammers, and he has never felt ashamed of his body until now, and the sensation is anything but pleasant, stripping away every last bit of mellow contentment, making him tense up again, and he doesn't know how to explain this, in any language he can think of.

"You didn't enjoy it?"

"No! No, no, I enjoyed it very much, I just don't, it doesn't work, not usually, I don't know, I don't mind, it's alright, I liked this, I don't need, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he says, not meeting Sébastien's eyes, hoping against hope that this will somehow turn out to be fine, won't result in one more person thinking Ben is a freak.

"It doesn't work? It doesn't work?" There is a note of hysteria in Sébastien's voice, and Ben wonders at it, doesn't see how it should worry Sébastien when it's Ben's body that decided to display such a lack of reaction. "What the hell did you do this for then? As a favour? Out of pity? Don't tell me, you're not gay, you just wanted to know what it is like! Freak."

Ben is still kneeling. "I'm not gay," he manages, tries to get the words lined up correctly before he shapes them. "I think the correct term would be 'bisexual', in my case."

Sébastien laughs, the sound worlds away from the softly fond sound of before. "Get out," he says. "I don't sleep with freaks."

Ben rises, picks up his shirt, stares at it for a moment. "I'm sorry, I really am. Will you tell me what I did wrong?" he asks, eyes fixed determinedly on the label of his shirt.

"What you did wrong? You're a freak, you're a disgusting freak, going around just blowing people, pretending you don't get off on it, or maybe you do, you just won't admit it, maybe you get off on people treating you like shit, but I'm not into that crap, I don't want any of this leather or whips shit, and I don't like people springing this on me without telling me, that's what you did wrong!"

Ben wants to explain, wants to say that Sébastien misunderstood, that it's not anything like that, if Ben had wanted any of what was just suggested, he would have said, it's just that he didn't think his inability to achieve and maintain an erection would be such a problem, would cause such an adverse reaction. But if he is entirely honest with himself, it probably wouldn't matter, not to someone who is so quick to jump to conclusions and judgements.

There are tears running over his face when he is finally outside, and the wind is just cold enough that the salt bites against his skin, clean and sharp pain overruling the diffuse anguish over Sébastien's rejection. He really is a freak, and maybe he should just resign himself to it, stop trying, stop pretending, because sooner or later people would notice, and they would judge, and Ben might as well use his time and energy on something more worthwhile than trying to fool people who would hate him the second they found him out.

***

He gets through what remains of his training, almost on autopilot, and then gets a posting as far away from civilisation as he possibly can, somewhere cold and quiet, somewhere with people that regard talking as a waste of time. Ben fits right in, easier than he ever did before, and it's a revelation of a sort, when he can do his job as efficiently and correctly as possible, and people will respect him for it, no questions asked about how anything makes him feel.

The memories of Sam and of Sébastien, he almost manages to forget, or possibly deny, and he stops reading any further psychology textbooks, because whatever seems broken in his brain, out here it works, runs like the smoothest engine he could wish for, between earth and sky and weather, no people or cars or judgement, no one expecting him to talk about any school-related stress or whether he has a crush on some person he never even consciously noticed. Of course, Hollywood wouldn't approve, but Ben is doing perfectly fine, and he doesn't mind the occasional attacks of loneliness. It's better than being called a freak, better than having people look at him with barely masked suspicion or resentment.

He has a strict schedule, wakes up five minutes before his alarm clock goes, dresses, goes to work, does whatever he is told until six in the evening, goes back home, heats something that comes in a can, with additional vitamins, drinks a glass of milk and sometimes a cup of tea, and then writes down everything new he's learned that day, in carefully neat letters, in a leather-bound diary that would quite possibly be regarded as his only personal item.

He goes to bed early, and then lies thinking for a while, especially after stressful or upsetting days, tries to sort through his emotions, pick them apart until he understands them, and then files them away into neatly labelled drawers, never to be talked of again. It's not denial, he tells himself. He does experience emotion, it seems. He just doesn't seem able to experience emotions the way other people do, and it's simpler, less dangerous to immediately identify and store every feeling he happens across, let it live in the wide expanse of his ever-turning mind, where it can hurt anyone, where it can't reveal him as a freak, as someone to be avoided.

 It's quite possibly nothing short of a miracle that he finds Diefenbaker when he does, because he's almost convinced that if he hadn't started talking to Dief, he might have lost his voice entirely from sheer disuse. And maybe it makes him even more of a freak, that he adopts a half-wolf, that he speaks to said half-wolf like others might speak to a fellow human being, that he is utterly certain that Dief understands him, but Ben doesn't care. Dief doesn't yawn at him when he talks about the taste of spring sunshine, or the colour of thunderstorms, doesn't ask him how he's feeling, doesn't try to encourage him to find a nice girl and settle down. It's not perfect, and Dief somehow manages to be far more sarcastic than Ben would expect of an ordinary dog, and there are a few minor incidents where Ben has to teach Dief very, very carefully that licking people's faces is not an acceptable way to wake them up. Not even in an emergency.

When he meets Victoria, it's after far too many days of being indoors, always indoors. Cramped office space, paperwork, too many people, the smell of damp clothes and coffee and sweat almost deafening, and Ben can't escape it, doesn't have anywhere to go but home, where he will be just as stuck and just as caged. The wind picks up speed and cold by the second it seems, and they are told to stay put, to no endanger themselves, to wait it out.

Ben thinks he might go insane. Dief is back home, Ben isn't allowed to take him into the office under normal circumstances, and the weather forecast was bad enough that Ben didn't even consider letting him stay outside, but he thought he could be home tonight, tell Dief about how much he hates the office, and the constant too-dim too-bright light, and the way most of the lamps flicker ever so slightly. Ben's head hurts, and he can't breathe properly, can think, just wants to close his eyes and hide under his desk, ignore the world until it stops, until he can get out of here, breathe something that actually contains reasonable amounts of oxygen instead of the overwhelming stench of too many people and too little space.

The call about a bank robbery comes as an unexpected blessing, and Ben doesn't feel ashamed about it. He needs to be anywhere but here, and the idea of tracking down a criminal through wind and ice sounds heavenly when compared against an office space that seems to shrink by the second.

He steals away from the noise and the speculation, dresses in as many layers as he possibly can, filling what pockets he has with provisions and bits and pieces of a first aid kit, and then tries to start one of the snow mobiles, only to realise that getting the engine to starting temperature in weather like this would be almost entirely impossible. For a while he just stands and breathes, trying to get the weight of the office out of his lungs. Something nudges his hand, and he turns around too quickly, almost loses his balance on the unsteady ground. Dief sits behind him, laughing.

"You think I should take the dogs?", Ben asks him. "Huh. In this weather?"

Dief snorts disdainfully.

"Oh, I apologise for underestimating you, I was simply trying to ascertain that I wouldn't end up endangering anyone but my own foolish self."

Dief growls.

Ben feels his shoulders slump, feels shame rising in his throat. "I'm sorry, Dief, I'm so sorry, but I couldn't, I needed to get out, it was too loud, and it didn't stop, and I couldn't move, couldn't hide, they expect me to be perfect, I can't let them see, what if they decide that a freak like me is utterly useless when he breaks? What if they send me back? I can't go back, it's too loud, too many people, every day, every hour, I can't do that anymore, please, I'm so sorry, I just can't, I can't."

Dief sighs, and then drags him along, no further explanation. Ben doesn't know what to make of that, and doesn't dare ask, just does as Dief tells him to, and he's freezing by the time they're on their way, doesn't want to think about what the robber must feel like, unprepared for weather like this as they must surely be.

Ben isn't scared, not even with the wind howling around him, blocking out any other sounds, not even when he can barely see his hand before his eyes. He has a compass, and he has Dief. He won't get lost in the storm, and Dief will keep him safe from any other dangers that might arise. He's a safe as anyone can be out here, and most certainly far safer than he had been back at the office. It's just him and the weather and bits and pieces of geography, reliable and steady, no malice or suspicion or doubt. He can handle the weather. He can't handle people.

So he doesn't think about the direction they're going in, doesn't run over maps and lists, trying to think where someone might chose to hide when they don't know the area, simply keeps going where the caller had told  them to, and trusts Dief to take care of anything else. And then Dief apparently stops, Ben feels the lines slacken, and manages to stop, stands there in the middle of a storm, and doesn't understand. He finds his way to Dief by touch, eyes firmly closed, hood pulled as low as it will go, doesn't need his tears to freeze on his skin.

Dief doesn't bother with growling or sniffing, just nudges at Ben, and then turns back, away from where they were going.

"Are we going the wrong way?", Ben asks at first, certain that that must be it, but no, Dief doesn't agree.

"Did we lose them?" Dief gives him a look, one that clearly expresses deep disappointment with the human race, and especially Ben.

"Then what is wrong? Are you cold? Are you hungry? Are you just sulking? What are you trying to tell me?"

Dief stares at him, as if in shock, and it's only then Ben realises where they are going. And why Dief refuses to move.

"It's dangerous, is that what you are trying to say?"

Dief gives him one of those vaguely threatening almost-smiles.

"But I have you, I have an entire team of dogs, and the robber we're chasing doesn't! They're in far more danger than we could possibly be, and it's our duty, as servants of the law, to find them, to protect them so that they can be brought to justice! We can't just turn back now!"

Dief's smile turns outright threatening, and Ben sighs. "You're going to go back, are you?" He pauses a moment, tries to get his bearings, checks the compass again. "I won't," he says. "I have a duty, you know."

Dief growls, but doesn't argue.

Ben pats his head, and then tries to come up with a plan, any sort of plan. "Get reinforcements as soon as you can, will you? We might need some assistance to make it back."

And then Dief is gone, and Ben is left alone, blessedly alone, to track down a desperate criminal. A desperate criminal who turns out to be an unexpectedly good-looking woman, in no way equipped to deal with a storm of any sort, much less one as terrifying as this one. Ben doesn't know how they manage to survive, the only clear memory that of a poem repeated over and over again, and the coldness barely kept at bay by shared body heat and a distinct lack of weather-appropriate clothing.

The sun against Ben's face feels like a curse rather than a blessing when the storm is finally over, when everything is sharp and bright and too much not enough. Victoria, still shivering even in the warmth of daytime and light, looks even worse, and all Ben wants to do in that fragile moment between reality and hope, is to protect her, keep her safe, keep her out of trouble.

He helps her stand, and together they start making their way back to civilisation, back to where it's warm and safe, where there will be food and water and possibly clothes that aren't clammy and sweated through and sticking even in places they really shouldn't stick. It's a surprisingly short way back to where Dief abandoned Ben to his notions of duty and what was right, and Ben can't help but laugh to see a bundle of food and water and blankets half-buried in the snow, remembers packing it, and then forgetting it over arguing with Dief.

It takes some doing to convince Victoria to eat or drink anything, and Ben wants to laugh at her, wants to laugh at how she so very obviously doesn't belong here, wants to laugh at the dreadful irony of running away from the law to a place where only the law could save her. He doesn't. Instead, he watches her eat, and wonders when Dief will be back, wonders if they would have to walk back the entire way.

And then Victoria looks up, meets his eyes, reaches for him. Ben goes without protest, holds still while she kisses him. It's interesting, he thinks, the freezing cold drowning out all smell or taste, and the snow swallowing what little noise there is, and maybe this could work, maybe this is what Ben needs in order to be normal. Victoria's hands on his bare skin are frighteningly cold, but his body doesn't seem to mind much, instinct clamouring for procreation, and Ben is helpless to resist.

It's over quickly, to his relief, and as conflicted as he feels about handing Victoria over to the authorities, he appreciates getting time to himself, getting a chance to analyse the emotions she evoked, and his body's reactions.

When he gets home, Dief is waiting for him, but refuses to greet him, growling quietly as he herds Ben into the bathroom, and then refuses to let him out again until Ben has showered and shaved and changes his clothes, until Ben has washed of the scent of Victoria and the last traces of his shameful arousal.

He wants nothing more than to curl up in bed and sleep, sleep until the memory is distant enough to be bearable, but his bed feels suddenly too small and too lonely. Even with Dief sitting next to him, close enough that Ben can pet him without getting away from the blankets too far, it doesn't work, Ben can't think like that, and so he finds himself on the floor in front of the oven, in the middle of a rather haphazard nest of blankets, and curled around Dief as closely as he possibly can.

"You could smell her on me, couldn't you?" Ben asks, the first thing he can think of, any way to start this conversation. It's ridiculous, talking to his dog about this, but it's something far too big to sort out all on the inside, he needs the words to be out in the world somewhere, needs someone to hear, so that he knows it happened, so that he knows it wasn't just a dream.

Dief whines.

"You didn't much like that, then?"

Dief whines again.

"I'm not sure that I do, either," Ben admits.

Dief licks his hand, almost encouraging.

"It wasn't… did I ever tell you about Sébastien? It was nothing like that, not at all. I couldn't, with him, it didn't work, but it was so nice, and I kept wishing I was better, back then, kept thinking that maybe I could be normal, if he'd just let me try, and now, apparently I am normal, but I don't want to be, not if it has to be like that, not when it's just," and Ben's voice breaks, he can't find the right words anymore, listens to Dief whine quietly at him, and tries to catch his breath again.

"I didn't feel anything," he finally says, and those are the wrong words, so he adds, "Not in my mind, not where it matters, just my body, and I… I reacted to her, she kept touching me, and I reacted. I did as she wanted, but I didn't feel anything, it wasn't, there was nothing to it, a purely mechanical reaction, and I… I fell into it, maybe, like drowning maybe. I couldn't think, and it was, I didn't like it, I don't think my body did either, but she was so insistent, and it felt, it didn't feel right, something that feels right isn't supposed to hurt this much, but it felt like I had to, like there was some part of me that wanted to, needed to. And maybe it's good to know that everything functions the way it should, but I don't want, I didn't want, it hurt so much, like nails on a blackboard. It was wrong, all wrong, not in my body, but in my mind, like none of this was about me, and I couldn't, didn't want to stop, didn't try to, couldn't think straight. And why couldn't I have, with Sébastien, she's a criminal, and I didn't, it didn't feel, nothing like desire, like I was made to, I had to, it was necessary, and I didn't care, couldn't care that I didn't want to. I didn't. Why couldn't I stop, why did it hurt so much, why does it keep hurting, why can't I?" and Ben's voice breaks again, this time around a choked-off sob, and before he can draw another breath, he's crying, his face hidden against Dief's fur, shaking all over.

He never quite manages to get over that particular nightmare, and what was caution and reluctance turns into outright avoidance. He isn't scared, not exactly, but between Sébastien's anger and the cold terror left behind by Victoria's touch, Ben has given up on even wanting to try.

***

It turns into a bit of a habit, after that, Ben going out in the most horrible weather to track down various criminals. It's not exactly safe, and neither is it entirely sane, but with Dief at his side, and a team of sled dogs he can trust, those are barely secondary concerns. Of course he isn't safe, no one is out here, but Ben knows the land, and knows the air, can taste a change of weather in the wind and hear it in the way light and shadows fall and shift.

Dief mocks him for it whenever he can, at times harsh enough to touch on cruel, but he's always right there with Ben, willing to risk everything to keep him safe. It works, it works marvellously well, and Ben can bring in people no one else would even dream of tracking down, and while it's far from the life he imagined himself having when he was younger, it's familiar and quiet, and he has found a  place where he fits, not perfectly by any definition, but well enough.

And then, his father dies. Ben doesn't know how to feel about that, if he's entirely honest with himself. Mostly, there is rage, drowning out everything else. Beneath that, after Ben manages to take a deep breath, and set out some sort of plan, is regret at losing a father he never really knew. And even deeper yet is relief and finally being his own person, and no longer his father's son, no longer someone who needs protecting or shielding, just in case his father shows up and asks about him.

No matter how many hours he spends trying, over plane rides, and over walking into an overcrowded city along a highway he isn't familiar with, there is no grief, no sadness. His father lived a good life, lived a reasonably happy life, and while Ben is sure that he would have continued to do so had he not been shot, Ben can't think of it as anything but a risk that comes with their work. Death isn't a stranger, not out in the territories, not in a place where a man could get lost in the middle of a storm, only for his withered bones to be found decades later.

So Ben makes his peace with loss, and moves on. Revenge isn't something he allows himself to think of, not when justice and duty will take its place so willingly. Chicago is loud and terrifying and everything Ben has tried to avoid over the last decade, but it's impersonal and no one cares much about him, no one looks twice (or even once) when he has to stop at a street corner, lean his head against the nearest wall, close his eyes and just breathe for a while until the world stops spinning.

It's almost a surprise when he makes it to the police station responsible for the case without any incidents. Without Dief, however, it's difficult to find whether the sensation is emotional or intellectual, and near impossible to know whether he should need to do something about it.

So he finds the man in charge, and is horrified to find that said man is Ray Vecchio, all posturing and an almost complete lack of respect for the law, his duty, or anything else under the sun. And just for a moment, he stops caring, stops paying attention, lashes out the only way he knows how, shows Vecchio that he might be Canadian, might be a bit naïve, but he knows people, and he knows his job.

When he leaves the station, he feels almost good for a second, almost like he accomplished something, before realisation hits that no, the only thing he managed was to be needlessly cruel and hurtful. Vecchio doesn't seem to mind much, though, to Ben's profound relief.

Of course, this only lasts until he actually finds himself working with Vecchio. He hasn't been by anyone in what feels like years at this point, but Vecchio doesn't seem to care much for things like permission or personal space, and Ben can't help but tense up every time Vecchio moves closer. Dief laughs at him whenever it happens.

Ben hasn't gotten used to it by the time they track down his father's murderer, and he feels something not entirely unlike sadness at the thought of not getting a chance to. But apparently, for what feels like the first time in his life, he gets lucky. For a rather peculiar value of lucky, of course, but he can't bring himself to muster any sort of resentment at it.

Chicago is still terrifying, noise and light and cars, never once stopping or sleeping, a constant background murmur of engines and sirens and gunshots and shouting, millions of people living their messy little lives as though it were nothing, as though none of the surrounding horror was any of their business.

Ben isn't sure how he makes it through those first weeks and days, when before Vecchio turns into Ray, turns into someone who might almost be a friend. Dief doesn't help much, of course, not when he has to stay inside, at the consulate and later in the apartment Ben finds. And Ben feels vulnerable without him, feels almost scared. He doesn't mind the territories, doesn't mind weather that threatens to leave his eyes frozen shut, doesn't mind knowing that any mistake, any miscalculation, even a single wrong step, might be his last. It's dangerous, he knows, but it's a danger he's grown accustomed to, has learnt to mitigate.

Chicago, with its guns and cars and mindless violence is nothing like it, none of the kind of danger Ben has learnt to handle and appreciate. And Ray isn't much of a help, not with the way he keeps swinging wildly between outrage and cowardice. The first thing Ben learns is not to trust him when it comes to risk assessment or keeping safe. The second thing he learns is not to trust Ray when it comes to anything. It's not that Ray is untrustworthy as such, but he doesn't seem to have any sort of faith in anything, neither law nor duty nor himself. Ben has never met anyone quite as cynically pessimistic before, and he hopes he won't ever do so again.

Ray, on the other hand, seem to share none of those particular concerns. He complains about Ben being too nice, complains about Ben being too helpful and too polite, complains about the fact that Ben still doesn't carry any American dollars, complains when women fall all over themselves trying to get Ben's attention. But for some reason, the one thing Ray doesn't complain about is the way the city around them is slowly, slowly trying to kill them, never a quiet moment between their work and their daily lives.

Ben is almost tempted to tell Ray the truth, tell him that even if Ben were at all interested in any of the women who seem so fascinated with him, he wouldn't be able to do much about that interest. It might help, in a way, might stop Ray from feeling like he has to prove his manliness at every turn. Or maybe he could just try to somehow make it a rumour, get people to back off again. He doesn't exactly relish the thought, doesn't want to face another workplace full of sidelong glances, of people whispering about him. And letting anyone know about this particular issue, in any detail, is going to cement his reputation as a freak within seconds.

Nevertheless, the thought remains, stubbornly at the back of his head, that maybe he should just tell Ray, should just say it, the next time Ray complains about the attention Ben gets, tell him, "Look, I can't get it up for long enough to do anything even remotely worthwhile, so there is no chance I would take up anyone on their offers, no matter how aggressively made."

He never does, though. Ray might understand, but he would almost certainly take it the wrong way. Ben doesn't think he could stand explaining any of it to Ray, not the way his brain is broken, and the way his body broke along with it. He couldn't stand Ray suddenly backing away, either. It's not that Ben wants anything but friendship from him, that's not it, he has zero interest in and zero curiosity about Ray's body. But Ray is one of the few people who gets careless around Ben, who touches him like it doesn't matter, like Ben isn't weird or contagious or scary, and Ben can't recall the last time anyone did. He didn't miss it, over the years, not until Ray reminded him.

Once Ben manages to stop flinching at every touch, it takes every last bit of self-control he has to not lean into Ray's arm around his shoulder, or Ray's hand against his arm or chest, keeping him from running headlong into the nearest dangerous situation he can find. If he is entirely honest with himself, even that isn't enough in the beginning. He can keep himself from clinging when Ray reaches out to him, but there is no amount of reasoning that can keep him from making sure that Ray will have a reason to touch him, any reason at all.

The city around them smells of gasoline and food and asphalt, far louder than anything Ben has grown up with. Ray smells of detergent and perfume and toothpaste and hand lotion and soap, and Ben can't get enough of it, can't get enough of that soft, clean, quiet smell in the middle of the chaos that is Chicago.

Ray, strangely enough, doesn't seem to mind. He takes Ben's strangeness in stride, or as much as he takes anything in stride. He keeps running his mouth about everything, a relentless stream of sarcastic commentary, worry about his clothing and car, explanations about the city, explanations about flirting, apparently whatever is on his mind at any given time.

And he doesn't stop there. He checks on Dief when Ben has to stand guard outside the consulate, he takes Ben out for dinner whenever he can, he is perfectly willing to lend Ben his car and his phone, trusts him when no one else would. He keeps Ben grounded, and he doesn't even realise. And for all his complaining, he never once acts like Ben is a chore or a bother, or too much of an effort.

They've been working together for little more than a month when Ray follows him to search a dumpster for diseased meat, as though it were entirely unremarkable, no matter how disgusting it must seem to a normal person. Of course that was before he noticed the parasites. After that, not even Ray's entirely unfounded faith in Ben can keep him there.

Still, he waits for Ben to finish his search before dragging him to his car, and then home, and Ben nods cursory greetings at various members of the Vecchio family while Ray goes straight for the bathroom. He pushes Ben inside, tells him, "Stay here, don't lick anything," and leaves again. He's back a moment later, trying to hold a bundle of clean clothes as far away from his body as possible.

"So, are you going to tell me what that was?", Ray asks him, drops the clothes on the nearest flat surface, and starts to undress.

Ben turns his back as soon as he realises. "Should I wait outside while you take your shower?", he asks.

The sound of shifting cloth and buttons stop. "Am I making you uncomfortable?"

"No, no, not at all," Ben manages, taken aback.

By the sounds of it, Ray takes this as his cue to continue undressing.

"Really, I can wait outside, it's no trouble."

"Nah, you're going to tell me why I'm covered in rotten lettuce and parasites, right now."

Ben hears the click of Ray's belt buckle, and decides that it's probably better to just tell Ray now, before this situation has a chance to become more uncomfortable. "I'm bisexual," he blurts out.

Ray doesn't stop undressing.

Ben turns to look at him, make sure he understood. "I said," he begins.

"Of course you are. Anything else you need to get off your chest before you tell me why I'm covered in parasites?"

 Ben feels almost tempted to take that kind of easy acceptance at face value, focus on examining the parasites they'd found, but he's heard people talk, he knows about these things, and he'd rather get this out in the open, deal with the inevitable fall-out, before he gives Ray any more reasons to avoid or hate him. "You seem rather unconcerned about this," Ben ventures.

"I'm covered in parasites, you really think I care about anything that isn't taking a shower right now?"

When Ben doesn't reply, Ray actually sighs. Deeply.

"You're not attracted to me, so I'm not teasing you with something you can't have, and even then, you're too much of a perfect Mountie to try anything when I tell you no. So I'm going to take a shower now, and you're going to tell me why I'm needing to take that shower, and stop freaking out," Ray tells him.

This is immediately followed by the swish of the shower curtain, and then the creaking of too-old water pipes, and Ben decides that maybe, just maybe, he really can be that lucky, every once in a while.

When Ray doesn't mention it again, though, Ben starts to worry. Maybe he really didn't make himself understood. But surely, if he said something now, Ray would feel that his privacy had been invaded, might even feel violated for having undressed in front of Ben, and that simply isn't something Ben is prepared to risk, so instead he tries to keep his distance as well as he possibly can.

This turns out to be not at all. Nothing changes, no matter how much Ben tries to make it. Ray shows up at his door with a plan to get free pizza, and Ben lets him in without even thinking of saying no. Ray wants to take him out for dinner, show him what real Chinese food is like, and Ben bites his tongue, and doesn't tell Ray that really, there is no need, Ben has had Chinese food before. Ray convinces Welsh to get him out of one sticky situation after the other, no questions asked, and Ben doesn't managed to stop him from doing it, doesn't even feel any desire to, even though it's clearly a violation of both law and duty. Ray watches him get into increasingly unlikely trouble, and doesn't for a single second hesitate to help out wherever, however he possibly can, risking job and reputation as though it was nothing.

And that's exactly what Ray tells him, every single time Ben tries to say either sorry or thank you. Of course he never phrases it quite like this, but the sentiment in it is no less obvious for the rough language it's hidden behind.

It's another two months, and Ben's dead father showing up with random and rather questionable advice, before Ray remarks upon that conversation again.

"You this awkward with guys, too?", he asks Ben, after another run-in with an overly flirtatious woman.

"I wouldn't know," Ben says, before he can think better of it.

Ray looks at him, an expression between worry and confusion. "I thought you said you were, you know."

"Bisexual?", Ben asks. "Yes. I just never had the opportunity, that is, I've never actually, I don't seem to…"

Ray laughs, and just for a moment, Ben is reminded of Sébastien. It's not exactly pleasant, and Ray must notice. "Wasn't laughing at you, just never heard you stutter like that before."

"It's not a subject I feel particularly comfortable talking about."

"Ah," Ray says, and changes the subject.

Another stakeout, and they're sitting in the dark, in the car, staring at a warehouse, waiting for something interesting or suspicious to happen, something that would justify their presence here if Welsh asked them about it. Instead, Ray has been watching Ben for the last five minutes, repeatedly starting to say something and then interrupting himself again.

"What is it, Ray?", Ben finally asks after another three such attempts.

"You ever had a girlfriend?", Ray asks, determinedly staring at the steering wheel now. "Or boyfriend, I guess," he adds when Ben fails to answer for a second.

"There was someone, once, but it, it didn't work out," Ben says.

"It didn't work out? How can it not have worked out? Girl must have been crazy to let someone like you go!"

Ben thinks about leaving Ray to his mistaken assumption for a moment, but Ray had asked, and lying really won't do. "It wasn't a woman," he says.

Ray snorts disdainfully. "Same difference," he says. "Guy must have been crazy, then."

Ben doesn't answer, and Ray drops the subject.

Two days after that conversation, Ray stands in front of his apartment door with pizza.

"So, why you leave him?", he says by way of greeting.

"He was the one to end our relationship," Ben tells him, and steps back to let Ray in.

Ray stares at him for a long, long moment, but doesn't ask any further.

The next Saturday night, Ray is insisting he show Ben some Chinese restaurant he just discovered.

They're waiting for their order to arrive, when Ray asks, "So, why did he leave you?"

Ben rubs his eyebrow. "Well, it seems we weren't… it didn't work out, I couldn't, I mean, we tried, but … I think he took it personally."

"Took what personally?", Ray asks.

Ben feels a blush rising in his cheeks, but if Ray wants to know, he will tell him. "I couldn't, I didn't, you know, he must have thought I didn't… didn't want, and he wouldn't let me explain, and he didn't talk to me again."

Ray gives him a deeply suspicious look. "Are you trying to say you couldn't get it up?"

"Essentially, yes."

The suspicious look doesn't fade. "So that's why you never take up anyone on their offers? Unable to follow through?"

"It's rather more complicated than you make it seem, but it is at least part of my reasons for doing so, yes."

"Right," Ray says. "Let's not talk about this again, okay?"

This lasts for precisely two weeks.

"Did you ever see a doctor about your … issue?", Ray asks over pizza.

"It's not a medical problem," Ben tells him.

Another week later, while Ben is on guard duty, Ray slings an arm around his shoulder, and says, "So, you were drunk or what?"

It's another half an hour before Ben's shift ends and he tells Ray, "I don't drink."

Four days after that, Ray hangs up the phone on a man rather concerned about werewolves, and asks Ben, "So what, you're just a freak of nature?"

"Quite possibly," Ben says, and hopes for a case that would distract Ray, get him to give up on the subject.

He gets his wish barely a day after, when he meets Victoria again. He greets her, and the last thing he feels is terror washing ice-cold through his mind. There is nothing after that, nothing he can think or feel until Ray shoots him. It's a blessing, it's salvation, it's the worst pain imaginable, and Ben feels nothing but joy at it, to be finally alive again, doesn't even care if he will survive. Ray saved him. Ray has saved him, has kept him safe, against all odds, against everything, the only way he possibly could.

He spends never-ending weeks in an empty room, trying to remember, trying to attach any sort of emotion to what happened to him, and still finds nothing. There are split seconds of memory, Victoria's hand on him, her mocking laughter at his lack of reaction, her voice asking him if he's too scared now, too much of a coward to do anything properly, and the pain when her caress turns cruel. He didn't try to stop her, he knows that much. Part of him didn't want her to stop. He isn't sure whether he thought that maybe he deserved it, or whether he hoped that maybe he would react to her, at least, after so many years of nothing. What scares him most, though, is the memory of finally feeling satisfied.

Even after recovering and rebuilding his cabin, it takes more than a full month of being back on duty for his body to arrive at frustration again, and he can't help but hate every single second of it. The physical sensations might have been unobjectionable, he can admit this much to himself, but it simply wasn't worth the price his mind paid for it. So the next time Ray asks, the only thing Ben can tell him, voice rough and harsh, is, "I don't think I want it to work. Not now, probably not ever again."

The subject is never brought up again, after that.

***

When he returns from his vacation, only to find Ray gone and an impostor in his place, he just stops. There is neither sadness nor disappointment nor confusion he can muster, running on autopilot. There are things he is expected to do, question this new Ray's identity, measure his nose and take his fingerprints and check his dental record, simply to prove to himself that he isn't losing it.

Ray had been his only fixed point in a world spinning out of control around him, and without him, Chicago crashes down around him, noise and lights and colours and smells and Ben can't keep up with any of it anymore, so he shuts down, blocks out everything he possibly can.

There are better ways to deal with loss than driving a burning car into Lake Michigan, he is perfectly aware of that much, but he still doesn't feel anything, doesn't feel the flames licking over his skin, doesn't taste the smoke filling his lungs. There is nothing inside him that cares anymore. And simply ending it, in the most efficient manner he can think of, doesn't seem such a bad idea anymore.

Instead, he drags this new Ray out of the lake, watches him take a bullet for Ben, and wonders why he let this chance go by.

Lieutenant Welsh tells him that Ray, Ben's Ray, has gone undercover, and Ben wishes he could cry. Instead, he promises to give the new Ray a chance. He has no intention of doing so, but even he know what is expected to him in this situation. So instead of taking the postcard the new Ray hands him and going back to the consulate to try and pretend none of this ever happened, he offers to buy him dinner. It's awkward and uncomfortable, and they mostly pick at their food while trying not to look at each other.

"Kowalski. Stanley Raymond Kowalski", new Ray tells him. Two arrests later, he asks if Ben finds him attractive. Several hours after that, he says, "I was a con-job then, and I'm a con-job now."

Ben doesn't know how to react to any of it, doesn't know how to deal with the shameless vulnerability offered, so he does what he always does, tells the stories he thinks people want to hear. But Ray isn't people, and Ben knows it's not enough. He doesn't feel bad about it, but even frozen like this, he can't stand the unfairness, the unevenness of it.

So after it's all over, when Ray drags him away from his pretend-birthday party and buys him dinner, Ben returns the favour the only way he knows how.

"I loved him," he says. "I loved him, and I didn't even get the chance to say goodbye."

Ray flinches, and for just a second, Ben is worried. "That's rough, buddy," Ray says.

Ben starts breathing again.

"Did he know?", Ray asks.

"Presumably so."

"Did you ever actually tell him?"

Ben just stares at his hands for a moment. "I always assumed he knew," he eventually admits.

Ray sighs. "So you never actually told him." He pauses for a moment, then adds, "You know that this makes you pretty much the worst boyfriend ever?"

It's Ben turn to flinch, because Ray isn't wrong, he isn't, and then he has to remind himself that Ray can't possibly know about Sébastien, that's not it, Ray thinks that Ben's Ray had been, that he and Ben had been, "We weren't, not like that," Ben manages. "He wasn't, he isn't like that, and…"

"Are you?", Ray asks.

"Theoretically," Ben tells him. It's as much of the truth as he's willing to tell at this moment.

The subject doesn't come up again for several weeks afterwards.

Ben doesn't notice the change, not while it is still happening. Then Ray crashes through the doors of the consulate, screaming Ben's name, his voice like spun sugar, fragile and frighteningly sweet, and Ben's world falls apart around him one more time.

And between shards and ruins, his mind finally starts spinning again, a hundred miles an hour, lists and plans and notes, an almost violent need to keep Ray safe, to keep his voice from ever sounding anything like this again. The next thing he notices, leaning over Ray to check his headwound, making sure it's not worse than it looks, is Ray's smell. It's nothing like what Ray Vecchio smelt like, nothing at all, but it's just as quiet, and Ben leans closer than he really needs to, closer than he can fully justify to himself. The handcuffs are mostly for show, and because he knows Ray will find it amusing, once he will stop being baffled. And then, there is a shameful part of Ben's mind that just wants him to lean closer, breathe until the only thing his mind can process is the smell of gunpowder and cigarette smoke, gasoline and wet asphalt.

He doesn't, he has that much self-control left. It doesn't stop there, though. He steps out onto the streets, hears the cars driving by, people shouting, doors creaking, someone a few streets further must have burnt their lunch, and the air tastes of falling winter. He feels the city around him, like a heartbeat, steady and calm, and he knows this, he remembers this, remembers Ray's hand on his shoulder or against the small of his back, remembers how everything went just a bit more quiet, just a bit more manageable when he wasn't alone. It's like waking up after a long fever, and Ben knows he hasn't recovered fully, but he is just as certain that he is getting better.

He doesn't think too closely about the warmth curling in the pit of his stomach. He knows it won't be going anywhere, and Ray has been married, so even if Ben had the courage to say something, there simply isn't any chance that Ray would reciprocate any of what Ben is feeling right now. None of that matters, however, not when he is trying to find a murderer and trying to keep Ray safe and trying to play for as much time as he legally can.

It's a relief, being able to leave the case in the hands of someone else, anyone else to sort out, and Ben takes Ray out for dinner, to one of the Italian restaurants Ray Vecchio had resolutely avoided in all their time together, no matter how often Ben had asked about it. It hadn't seemed strange while it was happening, but now that he's sharing a table and a rather unreasonably large helping of lasagna with Ray, he starts to wonder whether maybe food that involved proper cutlery and porcelain plates and tables with tablecloths on them where just a bit too close to romantic for Ray Vecchio's comfort. Ray Kowalski seems to have none of those concerns.

He eats like he's starving, and he keeps talking, about the case, about baseball, about the food. There is a kind of nervous energy about him, and his voice is edging closer and closer again to that frightening spun-sugar fragility, and Ben needs him to stop, before he does something reckless and regrettable.

He catches Ray's gaze, waits for him to stop talking, and then tells him, "I am sorry if this is making you uncomfortable, Ray, I had not been expecting the atmosphere to be this this romantic, and I especially hadn't been expecting the candlelight."

Ray laughs, an almost hysterical edge to it. "So, you're telling me this isn't a date?"

 _Oh_ , Ben thinks. "I hadn't intended it to be, no, though if you should prove to be amenable, there is nothing I should like better."

Ray goes back to talking about dancing as though Ben hadn't just interrupted him, but his voice has turned solid and deep, sweet-bitter taste of caramel, and the warmth in the pit of Ben's stomach turns into carefully banked fire.

Ray offers to take him back to the consulate after they finish dinner, and Ben worries if maybe, he misunderstood, maybe Ray was just relieved that this hadn't been intended as a date. But Ray's voice, when Ben tries to remember, before that spun sugar taste of panic had shattered his last defences, before that, Ray's voice had been soft, and he can't think of the right taste, maple syrup too dark, and molasses too languid, corn syrup maybe, or the kind of cheap, liquid honey, but that's not it, not at all, nothing so artificial about Ray, there has been something darkly bitter there before, like tea steeped too long, and that's when Ben finds it, taste of sweet tea, bitter-sour-bright-sweet, tempting but always a bit too much, too much for the way Ben had never learnt to appreciate sweetness. Now, though, something has changed, Ray has changed something, tempered his voice into smooth caramel, and there is not a taste in the world Ben likes better.

He accepts the offer, and spends the entire car ride trying not to think about Sébastien, trying not to think about all the ways this could go wrong, trying not to think of the conversation he and Ray need to have, before Ben can allow anything to happen. Or maybe Ben shouldn't allow anything to happen at all, should come up with some sort of excuse, apologise for misleading Ray, because surely it would be better to have Ray angry at Ben for being a tease, for making fun of him, for something, than inadvertently cause Ray to be angry at himself, for feeling that he wasn't good enough for Ben, or that maybe Ben was just doing this out of pity, that maybe Ray was being pathetic, and nothing more.

There might be another option yet, one that Ben has rarely considered at any depth, and one he had tried to forget about entirely after Victoria. There was nothing physically wrong with him, as far as he could tell, so it might be possible that he could, with the proper motivation, convince his body to achieve and maintain an erection for long enough to satisfy Ray. The deception of it didn't appeal, and neither did the idea of forcing his body into a reaction I wasn't at all inclined to, especially not at the cost of his own satisfaction. And he knows that if he should manage, satisfaction for him would be physical at best, if that. Given a choice, he should much rather satisfy his mind, his soul, but neither of those could possibly be enough for Ray. Ray, who has been married for more than a decade. Ray, who will inevitably have certain expectations, who must surely want a lover more experienced, more satisfactory, more suitable, more capable than Ben could ever be. Surely Ray would…

Ray's hand is warm and heavy on his shoulder, and he is shaking Ben ever so slightly. "We're here, Frase. Come on, I'll walk you to your door, you sleep over it, we can deal with this tomorrow."

Ben nods, unbuckles his seatbelt, steps out of the car, the cool night air washing away some of the panic that had been curling around him slowly. And then he is standing in front of the consulate's doors, and Ray is next to him, standing close, watching him.

"I know I said tomorrow, but," and here Ray stops, draws a breath, throws a hasty glance over the street below, his voice dark caramel, thicker and darker than before, and Ben almost whimpers, even before Ray says, "Can I kiss you goodnight?"

"Please."

Ray leans closer, places a hand on Ben's cheek, warm and dry, so warm, his skin smelling of soap, and Ben wants to turn his head, wants to taste, but no, no, tomorrow. Now, he has been promised a kiss, nothing more, he won't take more than is offered, not when he knows that Ray will withdraw that offer as soon as Ben tells him the truth, tells him how much of a failure Ben is, and no, that isn't the right train of thought, either. The right train of thought is letting Ray tilt his head just the slightest bit to the side, and then hold still, breathe in Ray's gunpowder-gasoline-smoke smell, and wait.

Ray's lips are rough and dry, not unlike his hand, and Ben thinks about chapstick for a split second, and then wonders at the taste, neither blood nor ice between them, instead faintest, faintest trace of coffee, and Ben is so careful, doesn't want to push too far, doesn't want Ray to stop.

Ray doesn't stop. Ray moves closer yet, licks over Ben's lips, and Ben opens to him, and oh, he really does taste of coffee, sharp and bitter and dark, so heavy and dark, and Ben has missed this, hasn't even known how much he missed it. But Ray said tomorrow, and said goodnight kiss, and Ben knows what will happen if he will try and take any initiative of his own, knows that there is nothing in the world that could stop him from exploring every last inch of Ray's skin, try to burn every taste and sensation into his memory, so that he would have something to hold on to when Ray inevitably left.

But not moving, not wondering, the only thing left to him is taste and smell and touch and sound, surrounding him, drowning him, Ben has to lean against the door, can't trust his legs to keep him upright anymore, not when one of Ray's hands is petting his hair, ever so carefully, not when this close, Ray still smells of the consulate, smells of Ben's office, of Ben, not when Ray's lips and tongue are slick and wet and mobile against his own, not when Ray's breath comes heavy and rough, gasping for air, but unwilling to stop kissing Ben. It's so much, so perfect, and there is nothing but Ray in Ben's world.

Then, Ray steps back, looking concerned, and Ben wants to protest, but no, no, he can't, he won't push for more, tomorrow, Ray said tomorrow, Ray said, say, "Frase? What's wrong?"

Ben has to blink several times, try to clear his mind enough to process the question at all. "Nothing, I'm not, I'm just, I haven't, I haven't done this often, and it was quite some time ago, and I, you, I," and he runs out of words, tries waving his hands in illustration instead.

"A bit too much at once, huh?", Ray asks. "We'll take it slow, I promise."

And then he leans in, and kisses Ben again, softly as he can, and says, "Goodnight."

Ben has to close his eyes and breathe, just breathe, deep and even, not reach out, not try to make Ray stay. When he feels settled enough to look, Ray is gone.

The door clicks open under Ben's trembling hands, and then he's stumbling through the hallway down to his office, his office where Ray spent the last two nights, the office that still smells of Ray, and Ben's lips are still tingling from their kiss, and he can taste coffee every time he licks over them, and if it won't work now, it never will, so Ben makes sure Dief isn't anywhere in his office, and then closes the door, takes a deep breath, and starts undressing.

Layer after layer, and he carefully folds every single item of clothing he removes, tries not to think about what he is trying to do, tries to fill his thoughts with nothing but Ray, Ray's taste and smell and touch and the caramel sound of his voice. It helps for a time, but once he is naked, lying on his cot and trying to think of something, anything, that would produce the desired effect, he finds that he can't hold on to Ray anymore.

He thinks of Sébastien instead, a memory that cannot be tainted more should Ben fail. Ray deserves better, Ray deserves more than Ben using him for a far-fetched, desperate experiment. The smell of wood smoke and ink is still clear and pure when Ben finds it, and he thinks back all those years, remembers the carpet under his knees and the way his lips had been dry and cracked from salt and dehydration and carelessness. He remembers needing more, wanting more, wanting to taste the desire on Sébastien's skin, remembers wanting to please him, couldn't think of anything that would have been marvellous, to be the cause of another's pleasure, another's satisfaction. There is heat gathering in the pit of Ben's stomach, low and tense, surprisingly enjoyable, and Ben remembers wanting, and then stops remembering, and just wants. Wanting, though, isn't enough, he knows that much. So he tries to fix the feeling in his mind, hold on to it, and starts touching himself.

His nipples tighten dutifully at his touch, but the sensation is curious at best, slightly annoying at worst, and Ben soon moves on, fingertips tracing lower and lower, coming to rest as soon as they reach the wiry curls of his pubic hair, and he doesn't know where to go from here. Intellectually, he is aware that mechanical stimulation should serve, but he had hoped that maybe, with the memory of Sébastien's taste, he could at least arrive at the beginnings of a reaction. There is nothing at all, and if he were to slide his hands lower, if he were to touch, then there would be no way of denying it any longer.

Still, he has to, for Ray, he at least has to try. He wraps a hand around himself, rough fingers strangely ticklish against such sensitive skin, and tries to call Sébastien's taste to mind. But the only one who ever touched him like this had been Victoria, and between his own touch and the memory of ice and long, sharp fingernails, he feels himself harden, and it's too much, he can't, wants to stop, it hurts, but he needs to, needs his body to learn this, to react properly, on Ben's command, can't afford not to, can't afford to disappoint Ray, can't ever risk losing that caramel voice and quiet smell and steady, reassuring presence.

He feels his penis soften at the thought of Ray, and it won't do, he can't allow it, so he focuses on Victoria again, and it works, as long as he keeps his mind carefully blank of anything but the memory and pain of her touch. He starts to move his hand, slowly, cautiously, and there is a wave of shivery-bright sensation, and nothing else after.

He yanks his hand away, it's too much, he can't, and it really hurts now, not his body, but his heart, and he can't quite think clearly again, but there is something beyond the brightness now, and he has his answer, had it ages ago, but refused to accept it, and he should never have done this to Ray, should never have, shouldn't, it's too much, sensation too overwhelming, he can't burn this brightly in both mind and body, can't process any of it, can only submit, let it wash over him, use him, and Ben has always taken care of his body, but not like this, not at the cost of his mind, and he can't do this, can't do this to himself, and can't do it to Ray, either.

Ray deserves so much better, deserves more than passive and pained acceptance, deserves more than Ben can learn to give him. Ben needs to talk to Ray, not try and hide the dark parts to make himself appear any more than the failure, the freak he is. And maybe, if he is very lucky, Ray might one day find his way around to forgiving him.

***

Ben spends as much of the next day as he possibly can at the consulate, trying to bury his thoughts and worries in paperwork. Around noon, he is interrupted by Turnbull and Dief, the latter informing him that he shouldn't worry, and that currently, the former was far more satisfactory a caretaker, nothing like a sad Ben.

Ben knows this particular brand of Dief's worrying, has gotten used to it, and so he watches Dief and Turnbull leave, Turnbull animatedly explaining how to make the perfect donut to a surprisingly attentive Dief.

At four o'clock, he is once again interrupted, this time by Inspector Thatcher, telling him that she is leaving to attend the opera with her interior decorator. Ben doesn't ask. He does, however, promise to lock up at six, and not to do anything rash, troublesome, disorderly, or in any way harmful to Canada's reputation. Then, he returns to his paperwork.

At six o'clock, he thinks of staying late. There is paperwork enough to last him several days, at the very least, and surely Ray would understand that his duties…

And that thought is shameful enough that Ben stands and heads for the door at once. Ray deserves the truth, and it will only get harder to tell him the longer Ben tries to procrastinate. His office door clicks closed behind him before Ben realises that he is going about this entirely wrong. He cannot show up at the police station, in full uniform, if he wants to talk to Ray about their personal lives, about their relationship. He cannot pretend to be the perfect Mountie while finally telling Ray just how imperfect, just how broken he is.

So he steps back into his office, determinedly not looking at his desk, not looking at the work he could still do, at the excuses he could offer Ray why tonight wouldn't be a good time. Instead, he opens his wardrobe, starts finding more suitable clothing. The jeans are simple, he grabs the first pair he finds, along with the only belt he currently owns. The shirt, on the other hand, proves to be troublesome. There is a distant part of his mind that tells him he should be looking nice for Ray, that he owes at least that much to his friend.

But Ben owns flannel shirts in a variety of blues and reds, chosen for comfort and warmth. The colours are mostly incidental. Maybe, if he were any better at all those things normal people seem to be good at, making choices or looking at things or just acting normal, he might have changed something about this in the last decade. But he's Ben, and between the uniform he is required to wear, and the need for clothing without any itchy labels, cotton fabric that won't smell chemical or feel foreign against his skin, cuts that will leave him plenty of room to move, sizes that allow him to roll up his sleeves so that his arms and hands will be free to touch and move as he needs to, between all this and his difficulty in sometimes making even the simplest of choice, in deciding between red and blue and green, he has grown used to this to just picking the first thing he could find, or the shirt the shop assistant said looked better on him, or anything that would keep him from having to decide himself.

It had never felt like a problem, and Ben had never bothered to try and do anything about it, and now it's suddenly too much. He can't be who Ray needs, he can't even be who Ray wants, as much as he wishes to. After all, he can't even properly dress himself, it seems. Of course, that train of thought won't lead him anywhere good, he knows that much, so he takes a careful breath, and picks up the first shirt his hand falls on, finishes getting dressed, and refuses to look at any reflective surface until he is outside in the cold evening air, locking the doors.

He barely makes it to the bottom of the stairs when Ray's car pulls up at the curb. Ben hadn't planned for this, but it does make things easier, so he walks over, gets in, greets Ray in what might charitably be called mumbling, though honesty would compel him to admit he isn't even certain the noise he made contained any actual words.

Ray looks at him for a long moment. Ben tries his best to meet his eyes, but it's too much, too close, and he'd much rather focus on the way the car smells of Ray, and possibly a bit of Ben, of the two of them together. And that's all the courage Ben needs, right here. He is undoubtedly part of Ray's life by this point, and no matter what happens between them, this won't change any time soon. They are, as Ray put it on that memorable (terrifying) first day, a duet. It will be fine, whatever it turns out to be.

"I need to talk to you," he says.

Ray groans, and drops his head against the steering wheel. He stays like that for a moment, and then takes a careful breath before sitting back up. "Can we still get dinner?"

"Of course," Ben says, because he can't think of a single reason why not.

"Takeout?"

"If you wish."

Ray nods, almost decisively, and then takes out his phone and orders them pizza.

It's that last thing he says until they are in his apartment, the door locked and bolted behind them.

Ben stands just inside the door, waiting, watching as Ray drops the pizza cartons on the couch table, opens the fridge, takes out a bottle of beer, considers it for a moment, then puts it back, and finally gets two glasses of water instead.

He sprawls on the couch, holds out one of the glasses to Ben. "Sit," he says. "Eat. Talk."

Ben sits. He accepts the glass, takes a deep drink, and then says, "I have a confession to make."

It's not a particularly graceful opening, and it sounds awkward and rehearsed even as he is saying it, but he can't bring himself to care. None of those words will ever sound natural, not when their content is so unnatural, and at least like this he can tell the truth.

Ray nods, but doesn't say anything.

"I… I haven't been entirely truthful with you," Ben says. "I have lead you to believe that a… a romantic, and quite possibly sexual relationship between the two of us would be, would be a possibility, and, I, I should have told you before, that…"

"What, is there some secret code that says Mounties can't be queer?", Ray interrupts him.

Ben allows himself the smallest of smiles. "If there is, I have not been made aware of its existence, no. This isn't about, about my work. It's… there is something I should have told you, told you before you agreed to, and if you decided that you would not, wouldn't want to be … involved with me, under the circumstances, I would of course understand, and I am deeply sorry that I have neglected to inform you of…"

Ray interrupts him again. "How about you tell me what the problem is, before you assume it'll be a dealbreaker?"

Ben looks down at his hands, still clutching the glass Ray offered him. He leans over, sets it down on the couch table, draws himself upright, and tries not to think about how everything in here smells of Ray, smells like home and safe and warm, makes Ben want to stay, and once he tells the truth, he won't be able to, Ray won't let him anymore, and of course that is the problem at hand, because Ben shouldn't stay when his presence is clearly due to a wrongful assumption on Ray's part, but he doesn't want to leave, desperately doesn't want to leave, but he has to, he can't lie, not to Ray, not about this, not here. So he meets Ray's eyes, straight on, let's his mind overload on this, so that he won't be able to feel his heart be broken yet again, and says, "I'm… I can't, it doesn't work, it never really has, I don't… I don't want it to, it hurts, and I'm sorry, you have been married, you must have certain expectations of, of, of sexual relations, of satisfaction, and I can't, I'm, I'm broken, and I am so sorry, Ray, I should have told you, I shouldn't have let you, let you believe, it wasn't fair to you, but I wanted, I hoped that maybe, for you, I would be able to, but I can't, and I'm so sorry." He bites his tongue, then, physically stops himself from saying another word, offering yet another pointless excuse or explanation or apology. It wouldn't make any difference, after all, and talking for longer would only prolong the pain.

Ray stares at him, and Ben can feel him thinking. He really should have expressed himself more clearly, then, but he doesn't know the right words, nothing so crude as the way Ray Vecchio had phrased it what seems like an eternity ago, but even thinking of the proper medical term makes him angry, because it's not, it's not a dysfunction, or maybe it is, though surely not of the body, but of the mind.

"You're not broken," is what Ray finally says. Or rather, he declares it, declares it as though it was immutable truth. "You're a freak, and you're crazy, and you drive me crazy, and you're too Canadian for your own good, and you put things in your mouth that no sane person should ever put in their mouth, but you are not broken."

Ben doesn't know how to reply to this. Of course he is broken, Ray just refuses to see, refuses to acknowledge it, and maybe he thinks it's kind, this sort of denial, but it only hurts worse, when he isn't seeing Ben, when he is pretending like maybe Ben is someone different, someone Ray could really be with.

He starts to deny it, to explain Ray exactly and in no uncertain terms just how wrong this assessment of Ben is, but he doesn't get any chance to.

"I'm not really clear on what you're trying to tell me here, but whatever it is, we'll work it out, promise," Ray tells him.

Apparently he didn't understand, then. Which means Ben has to try again, has to find the right words this time, because he isn't sure he could survive the shame of a third attempt. "It's not, it's not just something you can fix, I don't, I'm not, even if you could fix it, it wouldn't, wouldn't work, and," Ben stammers, and this simply won't do, Ray is still not understanding him, and Ben resigns himself to using words he had been trying to avoid. "What I am trying to say, Ray, is that my body fails to react to sexual stimuli as one should expect of a healthy adult male, which previous partners of mine have perceived as a slight to their abilities, or an expression of my disinterest, and furthermore an impediment to achieving satisfaction in their congress with me."

"Oh," Ray says. Then, "Huh." And finally, "That's not what I expected when you said we need to talk."

"I'm sorry, I… I will leave now, if you, if you'll excuse," Ben says.

"No," Ray tells him.

Ben sits back down, hands folded in his lap, and waits. If he is to be hurt over this yet again, the least he can do is face it with as much dignity as is left to him.

"Does it bother you?", Ray asks, tentatively, as though he were searching for a way over treacherous grounds.

"It bothered my partners," Ben says.

Ray waves it away as though it didn't matter. "Yes, I got that. Does it bother you?"

It's not an answer Ben has to think about, but he still hesitates before he tells Ray, "No, not usually."

"So, what, you're saying that kissing is okay, but you don't want anything more?", Ray asks.

And that's all wrong, that isn't at all what Ben has been trying to say, and he's shaking his head before he manages to find and form the right words, and even once he finds them, he can only say, over and over again, "No, Ray, not at all, no."

There is something broken in Ray's voice when he speaks again, the last of that wonderful caramel taste finally lost, lost to how broken Ben is, lost to disappointment again, and there is nothing Ben can do.

"No kissing, either? You didn't seem to mind, last night? I, I don't think I can, if I can't kiss you, what would be the difference, then?"

Ben has thought things wouldn't go more wrong, and it's relief and shock in equal measure to find himself proven wrong this time. "No, no, I didn't, I didn't mind, not at all," he says. "I, I enjoyed it very much, in fact, and I should, I would like, if you let me, that is, if you were, if you allowed, you said more, if you wanted, can I, please?"

"Can you what?"

"Everything," Ben whispers. "Anything. Want to taste you, touch you, smell you, you smell like gasoline and rain and cigarette smoke and gunpowder, but your clothes, your detergent, you cover it up, and I want, I want you, not detergent, but underneath, you smell like, like Ray, like everything, and I want, I need, can I, please say I can?"

"Of course you can," Ray says. When Ben reaches for him, though, he stops him. "You need to tell me, first."

"Tell you what?"

"What can I do for you? Do you want me to, to touch you? How? What do you need? What do you get out of this?"

"I, I don't know," Ben tells him. He admitted truths worse than this tonight, and he doesn't trust this quite yet, doesn't know that Ray won't tell him to leave any moment, but this, at least, is easy. "I never thought, no one ever asked, I didn't think it mattered."

"No one ever asked? But you have done this before?"

Ben nods.

"And you didn't, they didn't, didn't think it mattered?"

Ben shrugs. "It didn't," he says. Ray's anger feels like a physical blow, and Ben needs him to understand, needs him to know that this had been Ben's fault, and no one else's, and so he tells him, tells him everything he can think of, about going on a date with Sam, about how he couldn't even do that properly, couldn't handle something as simple as a cinema, and then about Sébastien, about how he had tried before, and it hadn't worked, hadn't mattered, Ben had never enjoyed the sensation of it, and about Sébastien finally letting him know he was broken, about not trying again until Victoria, about the ice, and the lack of any taste or smell or sound, and about the bright-harsh pain of it, about crying afterwards, about Victoria coming back, about not being able to satisfy her, about the pain she caused, and how Ben had felt afterwards, about the satisfaction that ran like poison through him, and finally about last night, about Ben trying, so hopelessly, for Ray, and finally, about his failure, even for Ray.

But Ray doesn't seem to understand, doesn't seem to hear what Ben had been trying to say. His body is tense with rage, and his hands are curled into fists, and his breathing is harsh and uneven, and he isn't looking at Ben, isn't saying anything, and surely this can't be what finally causes Ray to decide he isn't worth it, it can't be. "Ray," he says, and again, "Ray, Ray, I'm sorry, I hadn't meant to upset you."

And Ray whirls around to face him, reaches out towards Ben, and then freezes, a horrified sound on his lips. "You have nothing to be sorry for, this isn't your fault, you didn't deserve any of this, you deserve better than this, you," and his voice breaks, spun sugar frail, but caramel dark and sweet. Ben doesn't know what to make of it. "Eat," Ray eventually tells him. "We eat, and then we sleep, and then we figure this out. Dear god, Fraser, Frase, why didn't you say something, why would you let anyone do this to you?"

Ben doesn't know, hasn't ever really thought about it. "I thought it had been my fault," he tells Ray.

Ray growls again, but doesn't say anything, instead picking up a slice of pizza, barely lukewarm at this point, and starts eating. Ben follows suit. It's quiet, and the taste of pizza manages to cover some of that unrelenting Ray-ness that permeates the air, and Ben doesn't think of being sent back to the consulate once they have finished, doesn't think about another night he will spend alone. It doesn't matter, he tells himself, Ray said they would figure it out, and that would have to be enough for now.

And suddenly, the last bit of pizza is gone, and Ben wonders if maybe he could ask for a cup of tea, or maybe Ray would like to watch a movie, or anything that would allow him to stay for just a bit longer.

Instead, Ray stands, and holds out a hand to him, and says, "Come on, I have a spare toothbrush somewhere."

Ben shakes his head, certain he must have misheard.

Ray drops his hand, takes a step backward. "You don't have to, if you don't want to, but you can, I'd like you to stay, stay the night, sleep with me."

"Sleep with you?", Ben asks him, uncertain of the exact meaning. Ray had indicated he had no desire to explore their relationship any further tonight, but the phrasing is used euphemistically often enough that he cannot be perfectly sure.

"Just sleep," Ray tells him. "I'd rather not be alone tonight. And I think you could need the company, too."

Ben smiles, and holds out his own hand for Ray to take, to help him up.  There are a few moments of awkwardness, neither of them having much practice sharing a bathroom in recent years, but somehow they manage without significant trouble.

And then they are standing in Ray's bedroom, both still fully dressed.

"I'd offer you a shirt to sleep in, but I don't think I have anything that fits you," Ray says.

"That's alright," Ben tells him, and he can hear the tremor in his voice as much as he can feel it. It isn't alright, not at all, it's perfect, better than perfect, the sheer thought of it, of being naked, in Ray's bed, with Ray, having Ray's smell all over his bare skin. Being fully immersed in Ray, covered, drowning, and there is heat curling in the pit of his stomach taking away any further words, any possible explanation he could offer.

Instead, he starts undressing, fingers slipping over the buttons of his shirt. Ray just watches him for a moment, unmoving, and then takes of his own shirt, his jeans, and Ben is almost entirely certain that what he is feeling is something like joyful anticipation, at least until Ray turns his back, picks up a shirt from a chair by the wardrobe, and starts to pull it over his head.

Ben's hand freeze on the button of his jeans, and disappointment washes cold over him. He has been given so much already, he knows, and yet he can't keep himself from asking more, can't stop the "No," tumbling over his lips, little more than a whimper.

"No?", Ray asks, his shirt halfway on.

"I, can you, would you, maybe, I'd like, could you, could you … naked?", is the best Ben manages. It's a preposterous request, he realises, even before Ray starts shaking his head.

"You want me naked," Ray says, clearly not a question. "Why?"

"I'd like to, to be sharing a bed with you, not with, with your shirt," Ben tells him, voice carefully steady. "Please," he adds.

Ray laughs at that, and takes of his shirt again. He hesitates for a moment, and then runs his fingers along the waistband of his briefs. "Those as well?"

"Yes, please," Ben says.

"Return the favour?", Ray asks him, shivering naked in the cool air of his bedroom.

Ben nods, hastily, doesn't bother folding his clothes. They're only cotton, after all, and a night on the floor won't ruin them.

For a moment they stand simply looking at each other, and then Ray says, "Bed?", his voice rough and full of that wonderful caramel taste Ben loves so much.

"Yes, please," Ben says, once more.

The sheets around Ben are cold, rough cotton feeling foreign against his skin, and maybe this has been a horrible idea, maybe he shouldn't have, and then Ray moves closer, close enough for them to be touching, and Ben stops thinking, can only feel, his senses full of Ray, and nothing but Ray. It's warmer now, warmer and closer and better, but here, in Ray's bed, when Ben has almost everything he ever wanted, a comparative isn't enough, not when there is, possibly for the first time in his life, the possibility of a superlative.

"Can I," Ben asks, and then realises he isn't entirely certain of the correct word. "Closer?"

"Sure," Ray says, voice already sleepy-low.

Ben wraps himself around Ray as tightly as he can, doesn't think about it, can't think about it, not with so much of Ray right here, his to touch and hold. Ray makes a sound, something soft and happy that Ben decides he wants, needs to hear again, as often as possible, and relaxes into Ben's touch, lets himself be moved until Ben is curled around him, touching as much of Ray as he possibly can.

It's perfect, Ben thinks, closing his eyes, pressing his face against Ray's neck, breathing him in, gasoline and gunpowder and sweat, dark and warm and safe.

***

He wakes up to winter-sweet morning light and Ray's body pressed along his, front to front now. He still smells familiar and safe, and Ben is perfectly happy to bury his face against Ray's shoulder, breathing, carefully biting his lips so he won't give in to temptation to taste, not when Ray isn't awake and cannot tell him no.

Ray scent changes, so subtly that Ben can't be certain, not at first, about that undertone of heat and darkness and want, but then Ray is pulling him closer, one hand against Ben's shoulder, the other against his waist, and oh, he can feel Ray wanting this, pressing against Ben's hip, hard and hot, and Ben _wants_.

"Good morning," Ray says.

"Good morning," Ben replies. The words take effort, and he can't resist running his tongue over the patch of skin his lips had just been resting against. It's not enough, Ben knows that much before trying, the skin too smooth, too exposed to properly carry Ray's taste, but he doesn't want to move, doesn't want Ray to move, and so he won't be able to reach Ray's neck, or his armpit, or, dear god, his groin, and Ben moans at the thought of it, of how Ray would taste, musky and dark, no traces of soap or deodorant, not on skin that sensitive, just pure Ray.

Ray laughs, vibration against Ben's lips, and it's beautiful, a sound somewhere between wonder and joy, and Ben tries to trace it, along the line of Ray's collarbone to his throat, but it's gone before Ben can catch it, replaced by Ray's voice, again, and it's better, so much better, steady vibration against Ben's lips, a strangely shivery feeling.

And then Ray is pushing him away, before Ben even notices that his hands have moved.

"Hey, Fraser, Frase, Ben, you with me?"

Ben blinks at him, shakes his head, lips still tingling, Ray's taste all over his mouth, he can't process the words, doesn't understand what Ray wants from him, why he's being interrupted, but can't quite form the words to ask, either.

"Frase!", Ray tries again, with more force.

Ben blinks at him, slowly, and yes, that's his name, Ray is talking to him, and he needs to concentrate, needs to answer, before Ray worries, before Ray decides that they cannot do this. "Ray," he manages, and his voice feels slurred, blurry, but it's the best he can do.

"You with me now?"

Ben nods, carefully. He is, he thinks, he's been the whole time, but he can't articulate it, can't explain to Ray that it's too much, words and sound and taste and smell at the same time, and Ray is still pressed against him, just enough distance between them that Ray can see Ben's face.

"Can you tell me? You got to tell me, Frase."

Ben tries, he honestly tries, but the words aren't there, he can't find them, can't focus. And for a moment, he is terrified, it feels like Victoria all over again, his mind deserting him, leaving him nothing but base and relentless desire. He pulls away, needs distance, needs to clear his senses, needs to be able to answer Ray.

"Frase, Frase, you okay? What's wrong?"

Ben takes a deep breath, focuses on the sheets around him, on Ray's eyes, he can focus on Ray's eyes, bright and expressive, even when Ben can't read them. "I'm fine," he says. It's not a lie. It's not the entire truth, but he doesn't think he has the words to explain.

"What's with the lack of words, then? You don't usually shut up like this."

"It's difficult," Ben tells him, and he knows it's not enough, but he needs Ray for the words, like Echo, he cannot find his own right now.

"What's difficult? Talking? Listening?"

"Talking."

Ray is silent for a moment. "We can't do this if you go silent on me, you know that."

"We can't?"

Ray sighs. "I need you with me, you need to tell me if it's too much, or if I'm hurting you, I can't do this if you're not with me."

Oh. _Oh_. "I'm not sure I can, I never tried, before," Ben tells him.

Ray sighs. "Can you try for me?"

"I don't know, I can't think, not the right words."

"You can't think of the right words?"

Ben nods.

"But you," Ray hesitates for a moment. "But you understand what I'm saying?"

Ben nods again.

"If I tell you the words, can you say them?"

"Pardon?"

"Can you, if you know what words to use, can you say them?"

"I'm not sure I follow," Ben says, and he's getting better, the words are coming more easily now. It should make him feel better, getting his mind back under control, but he's moving away from Ray, distancing himself, and it's the opposite of what he wants.

"Can you tell me yes or no? Just that? Say no if you need me to stop, or if it's too much, or if you want me to do something else, tell me yes if it feels good?"

Ben considers this for a moment, then nods.

"Frase," Ray says, exasperation heavy in his voice.

"Yes," Ben says, the word foreign in his mouth, automatically copying Ray's tone and pitch.

Ray laughs, delighted. "I didn't know you could do that."

Ben copies the words, easily, just to hear Ray laugh again.

"Right, right. So yes works," Ray says, eventually, laughter rough in his voice. "Tell me no?"

"No," Ben says, dutifully.

"Good," Ray says. "Can I kiss you now?"

"Please."

Ray's lips are soft and careful against Ben's, and he tastes like sleep and morning.

He pulls back before Ben has a chance to register more than that. "We'll talk about this, later."

"Yes," Ben says.

"For now, you just tell me yes or no."

"Yes."

Ray doesn't laugh this time, but it doesn't matter, not when Ben doesn't have to cling to his defences and walls anymore. And Ray's emotions spill over him, warm and sweet, and it doesn't matter that Ben can't read his eyes, can't read his smile like this, because everything else about Ray, his touch and his breathing and his voice, tells Ben all he could possibly need to know.

Then Ray's hands are on Ben's shoulders, pushing him down until Ben is flat on his back. "Stay," he says.

"Yes."

It's a curious sensation, especially once Ray moves away, pushing the blankets aside, leaving Ben completely exposed. And Ray did tell him not to move, not to do anything, so there is nothing Ben has to worry about, nothing he needs to be doing, nothing he needs to be thinking about. It's a luxury he is rarely afforded, and it's even rarer that he is in a position to fully enjoy it.

"Good," Ray tells him, voice rough.

And then his hands are on Ben's skin, exploring, quick and light touches, running over Ben's arms, his chest, his stomach, his thighs. It's nice, certainly, but nothing more, no matter how carefully Ben tries to find something enjoyable in it. Ray's hands stop, just for a second before moving further, between Ben's thighs, making him spread his legs, and oh, Ray's fingers are dry and rough, callouses from handling guns and repairing cars, and Ben tries to hold still, tries to do as Ray told him, but it's not enough, the touch is too light, especially against such sensitive skin, he needs to tell Ray, needs to make him understand, needs _Ray_.

He tries to push up, move into the touch, but it doesn't help, it's still not what Ben needs, and so he tries again, says, "Yes, yes, yes," over and over again, and it still isn't right, still isn't, isn't, isn't. "More," Ben chokes out, and then, "Please."

Ray's happiness is dark and warm, still, and now there is a certain roughness beneath, Ben can't quite tell what, but he likes it. Likes the way it makes Ray's fingers harsher, heavier, his touch turning determined almost, one hand settling over Ben's penis, the other searching and finding all the spots that make Ben squirm, the thin skin over his collarbones, the inside of his upper arms.

It's a ticklish sensation initially, not entirely pleasant, but not unpleasant enough for Ben to say no, and he waits, waits until Ray's touch grows more confident, until it's too much too much not enough, until Ben can't hold still anymore, pushes up, pushes into Ray's touch, but he's forgotten about Ray's other hand, the one still resting over his penis, and Ben hasn't, doesn't, didn't, never with such care, Ray's smell all around him, Ray's hands relentless on his body, and he needs, keeps pushing up, into Ray's touch, squirming, friction against unexpectedly sensitive skin, moans helplessly, "Yes, yes, yes," spilling over his lips whenever he can get breath and control enough.

The happiness in Ray's touch, in his voice is entirely gone, replaced by the rough cadence of what Ben finally recognises as desire, and he needs, needs, can't think anymore, Ray whispering praise and encouragement alike, the words running into each other, Ben doesn't catch all of them, doesn't care, hears, "beautiful", and "you're doing so good," and "Ben", over and over again, and Ben moans, arches into each touch, but none of it is enough, pleasure spiralling into desperation, and he doesn't know, doesn't know, he needs, needs something, anything, Ray's hands so perfect, so beautiful, but it doesn't work, and suddenly the words are there, and Ray needs to hear, he needs Ray to understand.

"More, please, Ray, I need," forced out between moans and whimpers, Ben is running out of breath, tries to reach for Ray, but his hands won't move, he can't focus enough to make them, "please," again, "Ray, please, yes," and it's not enough, and Ray stops, stops, takes his hands away, and tears are running over Ben's face, have been for some time, he realises, but how could he notice when Ray, Ray's hands, Ray isn't touching him, and it _hurts_.

"Frase, Frase, Frase," Ray is saying, over and over again, voice shaking.

"Yes," Ben manages.

"Not enough, Frase, tell me, what do you need?"

"More."

Ray sighs. "Right, right, got that. More of what I'm doing? Something else?"

"Something, something else."

Ray's fingers are moving, not touching Ben, dancing while Ray is thinking. "I'm, can I just try something? And you stop me if it doesn't work?"

"Yes."

And Ray leans down, his mouth hot on Ben's chest, his nipples, and it's not right, it isn't, it's nice, but it isn't what Ben needs. He tries to be patient, tells himself that Ray's hands hadn't felt right at first, either, but they hadn't felt this wrong, either, and Ray is moving down, down, and then his mouth is on Ben's penis, warm and soft, comfortable, but, wrong, all wrong, he doesn't want, not like this, "No," his voice breaking on the word.

Ray backs off immediately. "Not good? Stop? Something else?"

"Your hands," Ben manages.

"But you just said it wasn't," Ray starts, and then, "Oh. You want me to," and he doesn't finish the sentence, his fingers are running down, past his testicles, and then further back, and Ben is moaning, pushing into the touch, needing more, more, and suddenly Ray's finger is inside, _inside_ , and Ben is trembling, whimpering, squirming, he can't possibly hold still like this.

"Oh, you like this, don't you," Ray says, as though it wasn't perfectly obvious just how much Ben is enjoying himself.

"Yes," Ben says, no other words left, nothing beyond Ray, Ray, Ray.

"You want more?"

"Yes."

And again Ray stops, and Ben is lost, there is nothing, he can't, he needs, Ray, doesn't, where is Ray, he tries to move, tries to find Ray, finds he can't, a hand on his chest stopping him, and oh, Ray is still here, hasn't abandoned him, and Ray's voice is washing over him, soothing and calm, but there is a tremor beneath it, excitement, need matching Ben's.

Ray's other hand is back, slick now, sliding into Ben easily, and so much deeper, so much better.

"More, please," Ben manages, and then moans again, Ray's finger brushing against, against, bright-sharp pleasure, Ben had read about this, had known, but not like this, hadn't know what it would do to him, he's begging, begging for more, for Ray.

"Frase, Frase, can I, please tell me I can," Ray is saying, over and over again, until Ben hears, and then again until Ben understands, realises that he isn't asking about fingers, but about, about, oh, so much more.

"Yes," Ben tells him, "Yes, please, yes, Ray, please," words tumbling out of his mouth without any control, not when Ray is offering, so close, so much.

Ray is shaking now, fingers unsteady, and he isn't going slow anymore, isn't being careful, but Ben doesn't care, it's enough, it has to be, he wants, he can't be patient, wouldn't last long enough for Ray to take his time, he would lose his mind from sheer desire, and that thought is bright-dark-sharp, pure relief, because it's not about needing Ray, or it still is, but Ben wants, just as much, just as desperately, and he is accustomed to wanting, won't lose himself to it, leaving him safe to enjoy this, enjoy Ray's touch, Ray's.

It's gone, Ray's fingers are gone, aching and empty, and desperate, and Ben tries to catch his breath, tries to calm himself, wants to feel this, all of it, wants to remember this. Ray is closer, again, leaning over Ben, kissing him, his mouth warm and rough and unfocused, but Ben can't think of that, not when Ray is pushing inside, pressure steady and deep, and Ben feels himself relaxing into it, submitting easily, happily to Ray's desire.

Afterwards, there is nothing left but the push and drag of Ray inside him, Ray's moans, Ray's weight over him, surrounding him. There are no thoughts left, no words, nothing but Ray, the moment stretching into forever, until Ray's movements get jerky and rough, and he's talking, "Frase, Frase, please, can I,  are you, can you, Frase, please," broken by gasping breaths and quiet moans.

And Ben isn't sure what he's being asked, but there is only one answer he can give, "Yes," desperate for release, for Ray's release, pleasure running high in his body, and he still doesn't know what he needs, but Ray's climax, Ray's satisfaction will feel just as good, if not more so.

Ray groans like he is in pain, pressing deeper, closer, kisses Ben, more teeth than tongue, and Ben falls into it, moving wherever Ray pushes him, and then Ray tenses, stops moving entirely for the shortest of moments, climaxes, inside Ben, so unbelievably close. Ben's skin is burning, and he can't stop moving, not even when Ray finally relaxes, body sated and calm.

Ray's head is heavy where he presses it against Ben's shoulder, and Ben feels guilty for a moment that he is still too tense to enjoy the sensation. Then, Ray's hand is moving downwards between them, settling over Ben's penis, rubbing ever so softly, and Ray is saying, "Come on, you gotta, can't stay like this, come on Frase, show me."

Ben is arching up into the sensation as much as he can, not even a conscious decision, and suddenly the tension is too much, reaches a breaking point, and for a moment he can't breathe, before his body relaxes, limp and soft and Ben isn't sure he will ever move again.

Ray is saying something, voice happy and sleepy, but Ben is already drifting back to sleep, content and secure in the knowledge that when he wakes, Ray will still be here, and maybe then, Ben would finally get to do some exploring of his own.

 

**Author's Note:**

> So, all the sex in this fic is consensual, hence the 'no archive warnings apply'.  
> However, there's one instance of sex that is cool until one of the participants freaks out then there are insults and shouting and it's generally bad. And there are two instances of non-graphic sex where the participants consents fully and properly, but one of them realises afterwards that he didn't enjoy it, and probably shouldn't have done it.  
> Basically, the aftermath of the first three instances of sex is seriously no good, but that is not due to any sort of coercion or force or any intention of any of the participants.
> 
> The unhealthy coping mechanisms, that's mostly Fraser being Fraser, and also the fact that he goes 'okay, this is a problem, let me deal with it by avoiding it as well I can'. No one gets hurt over this. Apart from a brief moment of suicidal ideation, which doesn't come to anything since there is justice to be served.


End file.
